Orchid
by Nelbertine
Summary: How does Chance's latest case, A vet receiving death threats, and Olivia and Peter's, A bank robber walking away from a fatal gunshot wound, link with a secret off-the-books CIA project and a hitman on their trail?  Rated T for some violence.
1. Chapter 1

**Orchid** – A Fringe/Human Target Crossover. Set midway through season 3 of both shows. Written for the Fringe Big Bang 2011. Thanks to Chance for the Beta Reading.

I own neither Fringe, nor Human Target. Rated T for some scenes of violence.

If you like, please review. If you don't like, please review!

**PACIFIC GROVE, NORTHERN CALIFORNIA**

Ronald Graham sat in his house overlooking the beach. It was a cool late autumn morning and the sun had yet to warm the chill from the air so a thin mist hung suspended, obscuring the view of the end of the garden, and beyond, the Pacific Ocean. Though it felt chilly, the sky was limpid and brilliant blue promising a beautiful, clear day ahead. Graham was sat at his desk, and his wife, Alison, was sat on the couch behind him fidgeting nervously. Next to her, taking notes and examining a number of letters, was Pacific Grove Deputy Sheriff Hank Andrews. Andrews was a large, black, open-faced man with wise eyes and twenty five years of law enforcement experience in California. He looked over the letters with an eye for detail.

"How many of these do you have?"

Graham shrugged.

"Two dozen, at a guess. They started about three months ago, and I'm getting one every few days now." He passed another bundle of letters to Amos. "They've gotten more threatening in the last week or two though."

Andrews nodded sagely. Pacific Grove was a quiet, pretty little 19th century town and crime was largely petty and tourist-related. It was only 50 miles south of the Bay Area, but in crime terms, it might as well have been a million. The quiet life and attractive locale had been the primary attraction for Andrews when he moved down from San Francisco, and it disturbed him when he had to deal with anything other than pickpockets and con-men. These letters? Well, they were pretty explicit and very definitely threatening. Andrews flicked through them as Graham and his wife watched. All of them had been printed rather than hand-written, though each was hand-signed with just the numbers _1 _and_ 9_.

"You know who this might be?" Andrews held one of the letters up. "I ask, because these are pretty personal and very angry for a casual aquaintance."

Graham rubbed his hands through his thinning hair. He was a slight man, with expensive, round-rimmed glasses and a high forehead framed by wisps of strawberry blond hair. He was a veterinary surgeon, and had lived in Pacific Grove for four years. He was quiet, well-liked, as vets usually are, and no-one really knew much about his past.

"I've not got a clue. I used to work in research – it's pretty cut-throat. Maybe it's someone who lost out on a research grant...?" Graham looked at his wife, who sat on the couch, hands clasped tightly in her lap. Andrews noticed the glance, but didn't say anything.

The letters were pretty generic and Andrews could really only ascertain from the content, that the author felt that Graham had done him a great personal wrong, and that he or she felt Graham had run off, rather than take any responsibility and done something about it. The earliest letter was more pleading, almost conciliatory, but the most recent was very definitely threatening. The author was coming, he or she promised, and they were going to ensure that Graham complied, by whatever means were necessary. The lack of details though, the allegations hinted at but never described, left the correspondence maddeningly vague. They felt like letters from someone with a fear that too much information would aid in his or her discovery, but who were sure Graham wouldn't contact the police, or if he did, would provide no pertinent information. It troubled Andrews. The big lawman bundled the letters together and handed them back to Graham, who seemed reluctant to take them back, holding them as you might hold a pot full of scalding hot water. Andrews coughed and tried to smile at Mrs Graham, who returned it with even less enthusiasm.

"Dr Graham, these feel like they're written by someone who knows you, or at least knew you pretty well and has a very explicit agenda against you. I suggest you think back and try to figure out who it might be. We can then pay them a visit, as these qualify as threatening behaviour. As it is, all we can do at the moment is send a patrol car past your house in the evening."

Graham stood up.

"Are you serious? This guy is threatening my life. He's threatening my Wife. All you're going to do is send a patrol car down the road once a night?"

Andrews looked at Graham carefully. He was terrified. The letters were unpleasant, and the threats fairly explicit, but Graham's reaction seemed over-the-top given the vagueness of the content. It wasn't as if they contained graphic depictions of what the unknown writer would do to Graham. Still, people dealt with these things differently, but the immediate indignation made Amos suspicious. Just what did the writer of the letters think that Graham had done?

"Well, first of all, we don't know who this is a man, do we?" Graham sat down slowly, looking at his feet guiltily as Andrews continued. "Second, until we have a name, and you claim that you don't know who it is, then what are we supposed to do? Who do we arrest?" He looked from Graham to his wife and back, the feeling growing that there was something here he wasn't being told. "That's the best we can do. If you feel that vulnerable, you could think about re-locating temporarily."

Alison Graham shook her head.

"No Ronald. We're settled here. We both have careers here. We're not moving again." Graham shot her a glance and she immediately looked down at the ground. Andrews noticed it, and the word _again_, and it underlined his earlier feelings of unease that he was only getting half a story. The Deputy eased his bulk off the couch. He'd had enough of being jerked around.

"Dr Graham, Mrs Graham, I don't know what you're involved in, but Mr or Mrs 1 & 9 seems to think that you owe them something, and they are getting increasingly desperate and angry. My suggestion is that you disappear for a few weeks until your memory returns and you give us a name." He looked at Alison Graham directly and continued. "If that doesn't appeal, then you could always consider private security, if you have the money."

Graham examined Andrews' face, sizing up whether to ask the next question.

"Do you have someone you could recommend, should we decide to do that?"

Andrews fished out his wallet and took out a business card, handing it over to Graham.

"I worked with this guy when I was in the San Francisco PD. He now runs a private security firm. They're good, but they're used to rather higher profile cases, and they're not cheap." Andrews hitched his gun belt and started slowly for the front door as Alison thanked him for his time and escorted him out. Ronald Graham looked at the card and read the details printed on it.

_Laverne Winston – Private Security Consultant_.

He reached over and picked up the telephone.


	2. Chapter 2

**THE EASTERN BANK OF NEW ENGLAND, MONTPELIER, VERMONT**

It was the easiest job in the world. Donald Cho nursed his morning coffee as the tellers and manager of the Montpelier branch of the Eastern Bank of New England finished up their pre-opening routine. There were six people working in the bank that morning, including him, and Donald blew on his coffee as he watched them ready themselves for what almost certainly would be what passed for the early morning rush in Vermont's tiny and sleepy capital city.

Cho had been a police patrolman in Boston for almost all his adult life – working his way up to Sergeant, until he reached 50 and retired on a very healthy pension to Montpelier, keen to enjoy the fishing and wilderness experience that this most beautiful of states offered. As a patrolman in Massachusetts**'** largest city, he'd been responsible for a beat that had included the Combat Zone, a tiny two block area adjacent to the Financial District, between Park Square and Stuart Street and which sat squarely in the centre of Boston's Red Light District. Cho had ridden a radio car through the neon-lit streets and black, maze-like alleyways during the early 1980's when The Combat Zone was at its worst, a riot of adult book stores, strip clubs, grindhouse threaters, hookers and crack dealers. It was one of the worst routes any patrolman in America could have, perhaps matched only by those unlucky souls who, like Cho, had discovered early on that as street police they were too good, too quick to notice the out of the ordinary, to be wasted patrolling the quiet suburbs. Like him, they had some of the worst urban decay in America to patrol – The Tenderloin in San Francisco, Times Square in New York, Sunset Boulevard in Los Angeles – and no doubt they, like Cho had learned that the difference between vigilance and complacency is the difference between a beer in O'Malley's at the end of your shift and a short, violent death in a filthy alley behind an adult movie theater. It's a lesson Cho never forgot, whether it was steering his cruiser along Stuart Street watching the street hustlers eye him, waiting for him to pass so they could complete their business, or standing in the bright and sunny foyer of the Eastern Bank of New England, watching tellers young enough to be his daughter share stories of their families and adjust the plastic palms and potted plants that made the Montpelier branch seem less like a bank and more like a sun lounge. Cho had taken the security guard gig to earn a bit of extra pocket money, secure in the knowledge that Vermont was among the safest states in the Union and the last bank robbery in Montpelier had been conducted when Gerald Ford was President. He saw himself as a meet-and-greeter rather than as a security guard, and the only time he had taken his colt revolver from its holster since taking up the post was to clean it. The Combat Zone had taught him though that even though the gun was for show these days, it still needed to be ready. He needed to be ready.

Davis, the branch manager and a man younger than Cho's grown up son, tipped the security guard the wink that informed him that it was time to open the doors. Cho ambled to the front of the bank and unlocked the doors, propping them open to welcome an October day that was promising to be unseasonably warm. First in was Mrs Waverley – a lifelong resident of Montpelier and well into her 80's.

"Morning Don."

Cho smiled at her as she shuffled past.

"Morning Mrs Waverley. Beautiful day isn't it?"

The old woman grumbled under her breath.

"1977, that was the last time we had an October this warm. We had eight inches of snow on the ground by Thanksgiving and it didn't melt until March."

Brad Marks followed her in, he was a local apple grower and cider maker and he nodded his head in acknowledgement to Cho, who nodded back. Sally Faulkner and her baby daughter Gemma followed afterwards and the young woman beamed a smile at Cho, who returned it with interest. Usually, that was about it for the early morning rush, but today, a young couple who Cho didn't recognise walked in. The man was in his 30's, the security guard guessed, and was wearing a plain brown, cheap-looking suit and sunglasses. The woman, perhaps three or four years younger, was dressed in an anonymous looking business suit and she too wore sunglasses. Both carried identical large cheap plastic brief cases. Neither met Cho's eyes and that, plus their forgettable clothing and something about their demeanour set Cho on edge. He was instantly transported back twenty five years into the past and he was back in his Boston PD uniform, watching the inhabitants of The Combat Zone knowing that each one could have the .357 or the box-cutter or the dirty needle that ended your life. He began to move, almost imperceptibly back towards the rear wall of the bank, so he could keep both the strangers in glasses in his eyeline and, God forbid, the line of his Colt.

The man walked casually to the back of the queue waiting for a teller to become free, and looked entirely relaxed as Sally wrote out a deposit slip behind him. The woman went to the back of the bank, placed the briefcase on the table, but did nothing else.

Cho's experience in the Combat Zone had made him almost clairvoyant when it came to spotting nervousness in people, and as he saw the woman snatching glances at him and his sidearm, every alarm bell in his head began ringing. Cho moved himself towards the front doors slowly and without making a fuss, putting his coffee on the shelf next to the front door.

What happened next felt like a lifetime to Cho, but in reality lasted less than a minute. As the man in the sunglasses reached the teller, the woman and man simultaneously pulled MAC-10 submachine guns from their briefcases. The woman levelled hers at Don, who's hand immediately went for his Colt.

"Don't do it, Old Man". Her voice was brittle. "Take it out of the holster real slow and lay it on the ground." Don did as he was told. The man was gesticulating to the teller to fill the bag he shoved through the gap beneath the glass with used $20s and the woman ordered Don to kneel down. Then she ordered everyone else to do the same. Sally Faulkner began to panic as her child began to cry, and the noise was making the woman more and more nervous. She walked over to the young woman and ordered her to silence the baby. Sally begged the woman not to hurt her, grasping her daughter to her, shielding her from the ugly sub-machine gun the woman in the glasses had slung over her shoulder. Sally's daughter, perhaps sensing her mother's distress began to bawl louder and the woman in the sunglasses got more agitated. Don used the fact that the female robber's attention was focussed elsewhere to reach slowly and deliberately down his left leg, eyes never leaving the woman and her dark aviators, as he sought out his Detective Special .357 revolver he had worn as a back-up piece for 30 years on the streets of South Boston and never got out of the habit of carrying, even in semi-retirement.

The woman in the aviators was becoming more and more irate with Sally and her by now screaming daughter, and Cho began to fear what she was going to do if the baby didn't stop crying. The other bank robber was waiting with increasingly short patience for the teller to finish filling the bag. Brad Marks and the bank manager were twitching, and Don knew that if he didn't act quickly, one of them was going to do something stupid. If shooting had to start, Cho knew it had to be on his terms. He drew the revolver from the holster as the woman in the sunglasses hit Sally Faulkner with the butt of her gun. It was a tap really, but it made Sally scream and Cho knew that neither the Bank Manager or Marks would stand for one of their own being treated like that, or what might come next if the woman made a grab for Sally's daughter, now wailing like a banshee. He drew a bead on the woman as she stood over Sally, screaming at her to keep quiet.

"FREEZE!" He shouted, surprised at the authority in his own voice. He knew that she wouldn't because only experienced pro's ever thought they were going to get caught and had the response to such a challenge thought out before they entered the bank. The woman in front of him looked more at home on Madison Avenue than Vermont State Prison, she looked like she'd throw up if caught shoplifting, so this was wildly out of her league. He was right. She whirled round, gun pointing outwards and Cho didn't wait for the barrel to complete the rotation and stop, pointed at him. He fired three rounds, all three hitting the woman in the chest, throwing her backwards over the table where her brief case sat, blood spraying through the air in an arc high enough for Cho to know he'd hit something major. The male robber, hand on the full bag of money, was more lithe and less of an amateur than the woman Don felt sure he'd just shot dead, and was ducking and firing his gun in Cho's general direction as he headed rapidly for the exit. Cho dived for cover behind the fallen table and returned fire, missing with all three shots. The noise of the gunfire in the confines of the bank, combined with the screaming and the crashing of smashed glass was deafening, so loud, in fact, that he never heard the woman he'd shot stand up behind him, blood still spurting from the gunshot wounds he'd inflicted, and was entirely unaware of the situation he was in until she brought a broken table leg down on his head. His last vision before the scene faded to black was of the female bank robber, dark glasses askew, gaping gunshot holes in her chest, carefully adjusting her glasses, fixing her hair, picking up the MAC-10 she'd dropped when Cho had shot her and following her partner in crime out of the bank at a fair sprint. Were Donald Cho not suffering a fractured skull and starting to succumb to blissful unconsciousness, he might have believed he was actually seeing tiny white creatures curling and squirming around in the holes he'd blown in the woman's chest as she fled.


	3. Chapter 3

**CAMBRIDGE, MASSACHUSETTS**

Olivia sat on the edge of her bed in her new apartment. It was a larger place than she had rented previously, but it was further from Boston, so the rent was more affordable. It was a small, well-maintained building with a beautiful courtyard with raised beds and a barbeque area. The kitchen was newer, the bathroom bigger and she had a walk-in closet for the first time. It really had been quite a find, which made it all the more surprising, as it was the first place that Olivia had viewed, and she had signed the lease exactly 8 minutes after the realtor had unlocked the door.

On the telephone, she'd told Rachel that the oversized tub and the tall, Georgian windows had been the clincher but that, of course, had been a lie. The clincher had been simple – it wasn't her old apartment. She had changed her entire wardrobe, thanks to six months back pay that Broyles had managed to get her for that dreadful, life-altering time in the other universe. When he'd first suggested it, she felt disgusted, like he was trying to put a financial price on her suffering, but later she realised that he probably knew what had happened between Peter and her, and that she could at least use the extra pay to do what she did. Replace as much of her stuff as she wanted. She had done so, and in doing so, she realised there were some things that couldn't be replaced.

Now she was sat on the end of her bed with her jewellery box open, furiously polishing and cleaning her small collection of jewellery. There was a necklace that John had given her. The thought of Fauxlivia putting it round her neck made her both angry and a little sick, and she wanted to scrub every skin cell off it, rubbing away any possibility that her wearing it would take the gloss of her memories of John giving it to her in a motel room in Worcester, sordid and sweet at the same time.

Satisfied that the necklace was clean, she smiled slightly, feeling like she'd taken it back from Fauxlivia, and placed it carefully back in the box. Next, she took out a pair of earrings. Her mother had left them to Olivia, and the small pearls had first belonged to her parental great grandmother and handed down to the oldest girl in the family since Grover Cleveland had been President the first time. They were a real, powerful, tangible link between Olivia and her mother and Olivia literally couldn't bring herself to think of them in Fauxlivia's ears. That would be an appalling violation and Olivia held them in the palm of her hand, before deciding that it was time for a little faith. Fauxlivia hadn't worn them, she decided, and the lineage of Dunham woman that was linked by the tiny earrings hadn't been polluted. She placed them back in the box and closed the lid, smiling slightly to herself that another part of her life had been properly reclaimed. She took the box back to its place on the sideboard and took a sip from her glass of wine. In the corner of the room was a pile of boxes she had yet to unpack and the top one had caught her eye. It was full of books and she lifted a small green, hard-backed book from the top of the pile. Turning it over in her hands, she opened it and read the title page;

_On the Origin of Species by Charles Darwin_

It was a first American edition, in the original binding, and was quite valuable. There was a piece of paper folded in against the spine. Olivia opened it.

_To Olivia, because not all evolution is mole babies and giant worms. _

_Peter._

He had given it to her after she and Broyles had saved him from being infected by giant parasitic worms. It had been a bit of a joke, of course, but nevertheless the sentiment had been real. It meant something. She ran a finger across the paper, feeling every bump and ridge of Peter's words. Then she saw the familiar flashbacks in her head. She saw them kissing, holding hands, stealing glances across the lab, she saw them in bed. Her bed. The familiar sting returned behind her eyes and for the umpteenth time in the last few weeks, she felt her own sorrow claw its way from the pit of her stomach into her throat. She snapped the book closed and threw it back in the box like it was a hot coal burning her hands and slumped onto the bed. When was this going to end? How was it going to finish?

The telephone rang and Olivia quickly swiped the back of her hand across her eyes and lifted the receiver.

"Dunham."

It was Broyles.

"Go get the Bishops, you've got a case."

**HARVARD UNIVERSITY, CAMBRIDGE, MASSACHUSETTS**

"We should go on a trip. I've always wanted to see the National Parks." Walter was busying himself around his microscope, cleaning the lenses and sorting out his boxes of parasitic organisms on slides. Peter, casually going through the morning mail didn't look up from the pile of envelopes.

"Sure thing Walter, which one do you want to see?"

"All of them, of course!"

Peter looked up from the mail.

"There are 58, Walter. You might want to narrow it down a bit."

Walter didn't look up from what he was doing, but Peter could see his mind working, like a child assessing which strategy to take that was most likely to get him what he wanted before committing himself to and approach. Finally he looked up.

"I don't see why we couldn't do all of them – it would be a road trip like in a movie I remember seeing. There were motor cycles and lots of marijuana smoking. I've forgotten the name of it now….."

"You mean Easy Rider Walter." Peter said, mildly amused by the route the conversation was taking.

"Yes, that's right. Easy Rider. I remember they showed it on campus. I say I remember, but actually what I really remember was that we had acquired a really potent blend of Costa Rican Heaven and we sat and smoked it whilst we watched it….the rest is a bit of a haze."

"Walter…" Peter said with a smile, "…..Neither of us can ride motorcycles, only one of us smokes weed and everyone died at the end of Easy Rider."

Walter put his box of slides down and looked across at Peter.

"We're owed some time off, don't you think?"

"I doubt the FBI would go for the year it would take us to do all 58 National Parks. You know one of them is in American Samoa, right?"

Walter's face dropped and his eyebrows furrowed.

"Well not with that attitude they won't." He went back to his slides as the door opened and Astrid walked in. Before she had a chance to take her coat off, Peter was already asking her a question.

"Astrid, on a scale of 1 to 10, how likely do you think it would be for the FBI to give Walter and me the year off to visit all 58 of the Nation's National Parks? Feel free to use minus figures if it accurately measures the utter impossibility…"

"Did you know…" Walter butted in, …"That Mammoth Cave National Park in Kentucky is the largest cave system in the world and it supports it's own species of freshwater shrimp. Its own shrimp!" Walter underlined. "Who wouldn't want to see that?"

Astrid eyed each of them in turn.

"Good morning Astrid. How was your evening Astrid? Why thank you for asking, I had a lovely evening…" She walked into the kitchenette that Walter insisted on having built in the lab looking for the coffee pot. "Can't you at least wait until I've got my coat off before you make me play umpire." She looked at her watch. "It's 8:30 in the morning guys."

Both men looked suitably chastened. Astrid took a sip of her coffee.

"So what's this all about?"

"Walter thinks it's a good idea for us to take enough leave to visit all 58 US National Parks."

Walter again butted in.

"Did you know that Kobuk Valley National Park has 400,000 caribou migrate through in the Autumn and only 3000 people visit it every year." He rolled back in his chair. "Now is that not something that it's worth making a trip to see?"

Peter leaned in to Astrid and whispered in her ear.

"I blame you for this. You bought him that book…."

"Hey!" exclaimed Astrid. "I'm just trying to generate some interest in the wider world beyond this lab." She paused. "You know what you two need?"

"Two aspirin?" mumbled Peter.

""A visit to Haleakala National Park to visit the world's last colony of Hawaiian Geese?" added Walter hopefully.

"A case!" Astrid concluded. "You're going stir crazy in here."

It was true, Peter thought. It had been quiet of late, and given recent events, quiet was not good. Peter and Walter had never really confronted the lie at the heart of their relationship and it was primarily Peter who was avoiding the subject. Walter didn't complain, of course, he was being given an easy out, but he had not pressed the issue either. He had planned to, but the whole Fauxlivia situation had taken centre stage, and that had been plenty weird and depressing enough.

Walter had stood squarely and steadfastly behind Peter as it became clear that something desperate was happening to Peter and Olivia's relationship and Peter had found that genuinely touching, if unnecessary. He had even sensed that Astrid, Olivia's closest friend was more distant from her. It was both sad and sweet. He and Olivia had come to an unspoken agreement – that they would work together as cordially as they could, not bring their difficulties to the office and just try their best to get along.

It wasn't working.

Still a case would at least be a diversion.

"I guess you're right Astrid…"

"Right about what?"

Olivia walked through the door.

"A case, we need one." Astrid added.

"Then today is your lucky day. The Eastern Bank of New England in Montpelier, Vermont was held up this morning."

"And…." Peter waited for the next bit.

"And what?"

"Well isn't a bank heist a bit….mundane for us?"

Olivia looked at Peter, careful to not betray her misery.

"You might want to talk to the security guard of the bank before deciding that…."


	4. Chapter 4

**CHRISTOPHER CHANCE'S OFFICE, SAN FRANCISCO, CALIFORNIA **

"Mr & Mrs Graham…" Winston began, "You can understand our difficulty. We normally deal with cases a bit less…" he searched for words that wouldn't belittle their situation. "…conventional. And we are very expensive."

"We have plenty of money…" Ronald Graham and his wife were sat in chairs opposite Winston's desk. Chance was sat on a sofa at the far end of the room, Carmine sat next to him, head in his lap as Chance scratched absently at the dog's ears. The Grahams looked distinctly uncomfortable in the cavernous office, which was no surprise to Chance. None of his clients wanted to be there and most would trade everything to avoid the need to employ his services. Winston had quickly become an expert at putting potential clients at ease.

The letters they had shown Amos back in their house earlier in the day**,** and which had been the catalyst for the meeting**,** lay across Winston's desk. Chance and Winston had read through them as the Grahams had sipped their coffee. The content of them had disturbed both men enough to decide to take the case if the Grahams could pay, but both had felt that there was something in the letters that was being left unsaid by their prospective clients. This conversation was Winston's way of scaring the couple into spitting it out. It wasn't working. Winston sat forward.

"I don't know what Amos told you about us, but we don't deal in money, we prefer more unconventional payment…."

The Graham's look confused. Ronald looked from Winston to his wife and back again.

"As part of my severance payment with my previous employer, I received a number of share options – each is worth $50,000, I'm prepared to transfer one to you, if that will cover your costs."

Before Winston could bite their hand off, Chance sat forward.

"So you're vets?" Graham nodded. "So as well as the share option my partner here is so eager to have you sign over…" He shot Winston a look, who in return rolled his eyes. "…how about you throw in free healthcare for Carmine here?" The rottweiller lifted his head from Chance's lap momentarily and looked around. Sensing that neither a walk or food were in the offing, he laid his head back down and groaned.

Ronald Graham shrugged, confused.

"Sure, of course."

Chance smiled.

"Here's how we work. I'm not a bodyguard in the strictest sense. There are a dozen bodyguard companies in the phone book in San Francisco, all of them a lot cheaper than me. What they won't do is solve your problem." Chance stood up, Carmine groaning again as he did so, and walked over to Winston's desk, perching himself on the edge.

"A traditional bodyguard will sit by your side, with body armour and wraparound shades. He or she will look intimidating and your letter-writer…" Chance waved his hand over the letters as he spoke, "…may will be intimidated enough to back off. But he won't solve your problem, and when your money runs out, you're back to square one. What I do is the opposite to that. I'll integrate totally into your life, I won't look like a bodyguard, I won't act like a bodyguard, I'll be a co-worker, or a friend from out-of-state. My job is to draw your letter-writer out in the open and put a stop to it, once and for all."

The Graham's stared at Chance, eyes full of hope and more than a little confusion. It was common to all Chance's clients. He smiled.

"In order to do that, we need to know everything about you, your favourite type of soup, who you prefer, the 49ers or the Raiders, where you went to high school, how old you were when you sneaked into your first R rated movie. The more open and honest you are with us, the better we can protect you and the sooner this will be over."

After the Grahams had left, with Chance promising he'd drive over the next day, new persona all arranged, Winston and Chance sat in the office, both troubled. Winston broke the silence.

"I don't know, this one feels a bit off to me."

Chance rubbed the back of his neck.

"Yeah, there's something they're not telling us." He shrugged. "Maybe it'll come out over the next day or two…"

"Yeah…" began Winston, "And maybe Guerrero and Ames can shed a little light on the situation."

Chance continued to rub Carmine's ears. If Winston was calling on Guerrero voluntarily, he must be worried.

"So are you going to ring Ilsa or am I?"

**CENTRAL VERMONT MEDICAL CENTRE, MONTPELIER, VERMONT**

"I'm FBI agent Olivia Dunham, this is my partner Peter Bishop. We're here to talk to Donald Cho."

The duty nurse directed them to a room down the corridor, and Olivia and Peter found themselves at the back of a line of law enforcement agencies all waiting to see Cho, who was sat up in bed, eating a bowl of ice-cream with a bandage round his head. A doctor walked up to them and took them to one side.

"He's OK, but he has a hairline skull fracture and we're still monitoring for swelling, so I'll tell you what I've told Washington County Sheriff's Department, Montpelier PD and Vermont State Police. You've all got ten minutes."

Olivia waited five minutes for the rest of the cops to ask their questions and pat the ex-Boston Patrolman on the shoulder, then, his room empty, they sat by his bed.

"Donald? I'm Olivia Dunham, I'm an FBI agent and this is my partner Peter Bishop." Peter raised his hand in a wave.

"Fed's eh?" Donald said between mouthfuls of Ice Cream. "Did these clowns cross state lines or something?" Olivia and Peter shared a glance, before Olivia continued.

"Mr Cho, we're more interested in your statement to the Washington County Sheriff's department. You said that the woman bank robber was an amateur, how do you know?" Cho considered the question for a second.

"I used to work Patrol in Boston before I retired, I worked a few armed robberies – the pro's were always in the zone – in and out in a minute, never phased by screaming customers, alarms, guards waving guns. This woman was freaked out by a crying baby, but she had the jitters going in."

"What about the guy?"

"He was stone. Didn't drop a beat. Now I can believe that guy was a pro."

Peter leaned forward.

"Your statement said you shot her." Concern crept across Cho's face.

"She made me drop my Colt. She had an auto – a MAC-9 or MAC-10 I think, so I wasn't going to argue. I still keep a Detective Special .357 in a sock holster, old habits I guess. The female perp started freaking out at the mother of the crying kid and I figure that I'm not gonna have a kid orphaned or worse on my watch, so I drew my back-up piece and dropped her."

"And?" Peter continued expectantly.

"And I put three .357 rounds in her chest. 10 seconds later, she gets up, cracks my skull and runs out of the bank."

"Was she wearing a vest?" asked Olivia. Cho laughed at Olivia's question.

"Lady, if I have to draw my back-up, I'm in a world of hurt. That means I want to drop what I'm shooting at, vest or no vest. I shot that woman with a .357 from 10 feet away with tungsten-jacketed hollow-points. They haven't invented a vest that could stop those rounds at that distance."

"And yet she walked away from three rounds in the chest. How do you explain that?"

Cho laughed.

"Agent Dunham, I can't."

"You ever heard of someone walking away from those kind of injuries?" Peter and Olivia were walking across the car park to the SUV. Olivia mused on Peter's question for a second and leaned against the car.

"I remember Charlie telling me a story from when he worked with Pittsburgh PD. He was on Patrol when he and his partner get a disturbance call from a downtown bar. When they get there, they find one guy bleeding to death after being thrown through a window and another, standing in the middle of the bar, stark naked, off his gourd on Angel Dust."

"Off his gourd?" Peter laughed. "Is that a law enforcement term?"

"It's how Charlie described him." Peter saw a flash of pain behind Olivia's eyes as she remembered Charlie. "Anyway, they try to tazer the guy and that pisses him off, he just pulls the wires out and comes at them with a broken bottle of Wild Turkey, so they both draw and put 14 rounds into the guy before he eventually goes down. The ME said later that Charlie's first round penetrated the guys heart and should have killed him, but he kept on coming." She sighed. "I don't know Peter, I guess anything's possible with the right chemical assistance."

"Well…" started Peter, "Walter and Astrid are at the bank. Maybe they'll be able to tell us something."


	5. Chapter 5

**THE EASTERN BANK OF NEW ENGLAND, MONTPELIER, VERMONT**

Olivia and Peter walked into the bank with various coffees, teas and a Mango smoothie for Walter. Peter handed the tea to Broyles, who was stood watching Astrid and Walter work. He took it with thanks.

"Anything new?" Peter asked after sipping his coffee.

"Honestly? What your Father is saying is weird, even for him."

Peter raised an eyebrow.

"Wow, that's quite a claim."

Broyles laughed genuinely, and Peter was surprised. Thinking back, he couldn't ever remember hearing Broyles laugh. It made him smile.

"Don't believe me?" Broyles began "…then ask him about the blood."

Peter walked over to his father and handed him the smoothie, which Walter grasped greedily and began to slurp at as he and Astrid were taking swabs from the rapidly drying lake of blood on the floor of the bank. Peter whistled between his teeth.

"That's a lot of blood."

Walter got off his knees and examined the scale of the spilled blood.

"Indeed Son, around four pints I'd think. The detective was an excellent aim, I'd say his rounds penetrated her heart, on the basis of the blood loss." He looked at Peter conspiratorially. "That's not the most interesting thing though."

"What could be more_ interesting _than someone shot through the heart getting up and leaving the scene of a bank robbery?"

"She's dead."

Peter laughed in spite of himself.

"What gave it away Walter? The blood loss, perhaps?"

"No, I don't mean that. She was dead before she walked into the Bank. I've tested the blood cells – no leucocytes."

Peter looked at Walter in disbelief.

"What, you mean she had leukaemia?"

Walter shook his head.

"People with leukaemia have leucocytes, but they're malignant. There are absolutely no leucocytes in any of the blood samples I've taken. Not one. Without any leucocytes, the common cold will kill you. There's no way this woman is walking around in the wider world with no immune system whatsoever. She's dead."

"Then how did she rob a bank and walk away from three fatal gunshot wounds?" It was Olivia, who'd walked over after talking to the bank manager. Walter shrugged.

"I don't know. We'll take some more blood samples back to the lab." He slurped on his Smoothie. Peter turned to Olivia.

"Did the Bank Manager help?" Olivia rubbed her eyes.

"He confirms Cho's story. I have the video camera footage and some of the bank note serial numbers, so we can circulate the numbers to local businesses. Maybe we'll get lucky and they'll be careless enough to try and spend some of it locally."

Walter had zoned out of the conversation, as the mechanics of the crime were of no interest to him. He had a genuine medical mystery, and that consumed his intellect more completely than the mundanity of a bank robbery gone bad. His mind was already racing, and the word that kept pushing itself to the front of his mind, was _Zombie_.

**DANDRIDGE FOREST, VERMONT**

They pulled the car over and the man leaned over and examined the woman slumped in the passenger seat. Blood puddled beneath her on the upholstery, and he gingerly opened the front of her jacket, which was sticky with blood. Where the exit wounds we located, tiny white threads were criss-crossing and writhing around, hooking themselves into flesh and drawing the wound closed.

"We need to get you warm" he explained to the unconscious woman, and he gunned the engine and pulled off the road onto a forest track. After a mile, they reached a hunting shack and he pulled the car well off the track and out of sight, and carried the still unconscious woman into the shack, lying her on the couch. Making sure she was comfortable, he went outside to the wood stack and brought in a handful of wood, and ten minutes later the fire was dancing in the hearth and the temperature in the shack was creeping up.

Once satisfied that the fire was strong, the man boiled a kettle and placed the water into a couple of hot water bottles and nestled them against the trunk of the still unconscious woman. He had seen this done before, he knew how important heat was to the process, and he gently stroked the woman's hair as he waited, and was rewarded about half an hour later, when the woman's eyes began to flutter, and she came too, groggy and uncertain of her surroundings.

"Patrick?" Her voice was little more than a croak, and the man passed her a glass of water, which she gulped down greedily.

"I'm here, Kiddo. How do you feel?"

She gingerly sat up and grimaced at the sticky mess of blood splashed across the front of her clothes.

"Like someone dropped a safe on me. My chest aches." She looked up at him, concerned. "How are you? Are you OK?" He smiled.

"Not a scratch. Hungry?" He already knew the answer before she nodded greedily. He had been the same the first time he'd been subjected to the tests. He laughed. "We'll I've got some beans and franks on." He looked at her with a conspiratorial smile on his face. "Wanna know what we made?"

"Sure."

"Over 60 grand!" She looked at him.

"Is it enough?"

He got up and walked towards the kitchen.

"More than enough, sweetheart. There's some more clothes in the bag by the couch if you want a bath, the water should be hot by now. We'll hold up here until nightfall, then we're going to California. Oh, and I posted the letter to Graham."

She smiled as she stripped off her clothes, the holes in her chest already healed, the pain receding into a deep throb. Then she took the bag and walked towards the bathroom, satisfied that they were well on the road to a fitting finale for their tormentor.

**PACIFIC GROVE, NORTHERN CALIFORNIA**

"So how much do you know about veterinary science, Mr Chance?" Ronald Graham looked over as Chance, looking awkward in a white lab coat, was examining all the bottles with skulls and crossbones on them. He lifted one and took the top off and was about to sniff it before Graham snatched it away from him. Chance shrugged.

"Not much. I know a bit about how to use horse tranquilisers when you're all out of aspirin, but that's about it." Chance looked Graham in the eye. "…and for the last time, my name isn't Chance, it's Tom Atkins, I'm an old college friend helping you out. You make that mistake in public, and your letter writing friend runs away for six months and, believe me, you can't afford to keep me on staff for that long."

Graham shrugged and put the chemical back in the cabinet. "Of course. Sorry. I'm not used to this." Chance slapped him on the back.

"No-one is. That's why you hired me." Graham managed a weak smile.

"One thing, _Mr Atkins_," He began, "You might want to avoid sniffing the chemicals – you're no use to me in a chemically-induced coma." Chance was staring dubiously at the chemical cabinet when his phone rang. It was Winston.

"Everything quiet?"

"So far. You got Guerrero and Ames on that thing we talked about?" Winston guessed that Graham was in the room.

"Yeah, they're working on it."

"Get him to call me when they've got something." Chance snapped the telephone off and turned to Graham. "So, who's our first patient?"

**STORM LAKE, IOWA**

1616 Western Road was as anonymous a panelled three bedroomed house as it was possible to find. There was a four year old station wagon in the drive, the garden was as well tended as those to its left and right up and down the street.

The man in the white van with Iowa Power and Water written on the side watched the house carefully as he had for the previous five hours. He'd watched as a slightly portly middle-aged man had come out of the house in a cheap suit, climbed into his Honda and driven off. He'd waited as the usual morning throng of milkmen, paper boys and moms on the school run had finished their journeys up and down the lane and for the last half-an-hour, it had been quiet. It was now or never.

He stepped out of van, lifted his toolbox from the passenger seat and jogged across the road, and banged on the door. A middle aged woman answered the door.

"Ma'am, I'm from Iowa Power and Water. We had a transformer fire last night, I'm just checking your fusebox to make sure its safe." He handed her his ID. She stared at it and then at the man, before handing it back to him.

"Fusebox is under the stairs. Will this take long?" The man smiled.

"Thirty seconds, Ma'am." He closed the front door behind him and she turned to walk back to the kitchen.

"That's good, because I have a lunch appointment at…" The man opened his toolbox and took out the silenced .45 and shot the woman in the back of the head. After she had fallen, he shot her a second time in the skull then, taking a syringe from his tool box, he injected a green fluid into the body. He walked out of the house and pulled the van into the drive. He walked back into the house and lifted the body into a black bag and sat on the bottom stair, watching it carefully. When it had failed to move in 15 minutes, he appeared satisfied and hoisted the body over his shoulder and carried it out to the van. Ignoring the bloodstain on the carpet, he locked the front door and drove off in the van to his pre-prepared disposal point at an abandoned farmstead. He dumped the body on a mound of tractor tyres, then took two cans of gasoline from the back of the fan, and tipped the contents over the pyre. He then lit a cigarette and dragged deeply on it, before casting the match onto the tyres and stepping back as the whole pile went up like a firecracker.

Once he was satisfied that the evidence was properly consumed, he picked up the phone and pressed speed dial.

"Number 16 is done."

"I take it there were no complications?"

"None – I was able to make the subject inert before there were any…issues."

"Excellent" The telephone voice said. "Your payment has been transferred. Do you have a position on 1 and 9?"

"They are in Vermont. I'll do them then I'll fly to California."

"Excellent. _Bobcat_. Call me when the Vermont job is completed."

The man terminated the telephone conversation, regretting his choice of codename, then took a dirt bike from the back of the van. Casting a glance back at the burning tyres, he tipped the last of the gasoline into the van, fired up the bike and tossed his cigarette end into the back of the van. He was already 200 yards down the farm track when the gas in the van's tank exploded, obliterating any evidence that he'd ever been there.


	6. Chapter 6

**SAN FRANCISCO, CALIFORNIA**

"What's taking so long?" Winston paced up and down his office like an expectant father. Guerrero looked up at him over his brown-rimmed glasses. "And where the hell is Ames?"

"This is the AMA database, Dude", he said carefully, but with the merest hint of annoyance. "Do you know how many doctors there are with the surname Graham? Two thousand, six hundred and eighteen on this database, going back to 1903." He looked over his glasses at Winston. "Ames is doing a little legwork for me."

"Well that's great. Can't you speed it up a bit?"

"Sure." Guerrero looked back at the screen. "You can get me a coke or something."

Winston stopped pacing.

"Do I look like your nurse maid?"

"Well then stop wearing a hole in the carpet and let me…..that's odd." Winston walked round and stared at the screen over Guerrero's shoulder at the smaller man's exclamation.

"What's odd? There he is. Same date of birth, same employment history…Oh."

"Yeah, Dude, Oh." All the details that Graham had provided them with were there, except one. According to the AMA database, Ronald Graham was African American. Winston shrugged.

"Perhaps it's a database error."

Guerrero looked at him carefully.

"Maybe." He closed the AMA database and tapped furiously on the keyboard.

"What the hell are you doing?" Winston sighed as he eyed the smaller man suspiciously. Guerrero held up a finger to silence him and lifted the telephone and punched the numbers.

"Hi, is that the Cedar Springs Central Medical Centre?" He paused as Winston rubbed his eyes in despair. "You don't know me, but my mother…" he stared at the screen in front of him. "Mrs Joy Browden, was a patient of Dr Ronald Graham before she moved to Key West in 2000. She passed away last week, and left a small bequest to Dr Graham, the problem is that we haven't been able to track him down. Do you know where we can find him?" He paused as Winston glared at him, which Guerrero ignored as he listened. "I understand. Thank you for your time." He put the phone down.

"Dead mother? That's low, Guerrero, even for you." Winston said contemptuously.

Guerrero ignored the slight.

"Get Chance out of there."

"What?"

"Graham isn't who he says he is. The real Ronald Graham was killed in a car wreck in Greenville, North Carolina in 2002."

Winston snatched up the phone as Guerrero sat back in his chair and started to try to find out who it was that Chance was actually working for. As he did so, Ames walked into the office.

"Graham is suspiciously wealthy for a vet."

Winston looked up from the telephone mid-dial first at Ames, who was settling into a chair then at Guerrero.

"What did you have her do?" He rubbed his eyes. "No, scratch that, I don't want to know."

"I got a guy at the FSC to give me details of the bond issue that Graham was going to pay you with." Ames looked over at Winston. "I can charge these heels…" she waved her feet in the air, showing a ridiculously high pair of high heeled shoes. "…to the company right?"

"Why not," began Winston, who made no attempt to hide the sarcasm. "Last year I signed off on a claim by Guerrero here for three feet of electrical flex, a car battery and a pair of handcuffs. Why should this be any different?" Ames looked quizzically at Guerrero.

"Really?"

"You don't want to know." He responded absently.

"OK…" Ames sounded disturbed, and moved on quickly. "Anyway, I got the guy's bank details and ran them through a piece of software a friend of mine has. Turns out Graham has multiple offshore accounts, we couldn't even access most of them. There was just shy of quarter of a million in those we could track down. If you can make that giving worming tablets to dogs, I'm in the wrong line of work."

"Organised crime, drugs or Government." Winston and Guerrero said in unison. "I better ring Chance." Winston added, walking out of the room with his cellphone. Guerrero looked up from his computer at Ames.

"All that in two hours? That's pretty good going Ames."

She smiled at a hard-earned and rare piece of praise from Guerrero. The two of them were getting closer, and in her mind at least, it was only partially a mentor-student thing.

"Don't thank me," she added self-effacingly. "Thank the shoes." With that she stood up and walked away, Guerrero watching every step she took.

"Yeah, they are pretty awesome." He said to himself in the now empty room.

**HARVARD UNIVERSITY, MASSACHUSETTS**

Peter walked into Olivia's office with a cup of coffee. She was leaning back in her chair, glasses pushed up over her forehead, watching footage from the bank's security cameras. He put the coffee on the desk and she turned her head round and smiled awkwardly at him. He went to put his hands on her shoulders to massage her but he drew back. It wasn't right. Not yet. When he spoke, his voice was just a little too jolly, it sounded forced to his own ears, God knows what it sounded like to Olivia.

"You'll damage your back hunched over that thing all day. I guess you've not found anything yet?"

Olivia took a sip of coffee, slipping her glasses back onto her nose again.

"It all plays out just as Cho said. The two armed people enter, guy goes to the teller, the woman hangs back, looks like she's about to whack this woman and Cho downs her, see?" She replayed the tape and Peter watched it.

"Whoa!" He took an involuntary step back as the female gunman was shot, shocked by the arterial blood spray. "A little notice before the R rated stuff, please!" Olivia smiled genuinely at him for just a second, and then it was gone, replaced by something more melancholy.

"Sorry."

They watched the footage as the woman hit Cho in the head and ran for the door. Peter whistled through his teeth.

"I see it, but I don't believe it, even if she is on PCP." Olivia sat forward.

"I'm running face recognition software on them, but it's not flagged anything up on either of them yet. I doubt it will find anything on her, she's a first timer, but I was more hopeful about him." She stopped the tape and leaned forward, staring at the image of the man. "What's Walter doing?"

"There's only one way to find out."

Peter and Olivia walked out into the Lab as Walter was busying himself at one of the workbenches. Astrid was checking the same face recognition software as Olivia, but she was checking against medical, federal and military databases.

"What do you have, Walter?" Peter leaned back against the tank and sipped his coffee. Walter, with a flourish, placed a flower on the bench in front of him. It was a cup-shaped flower, with a yellow and burgundy hue, with three petals framing the cup, all dark burgundy. Peter looked at it. "What's this?"

"It's an orchid." It was Olivia. Peter looked round in surprise. She glanced at him. "What? I like flowers." Peter smiled sadly.

"I'll remember that." If Olivia reacted, there was no external evidence Peter could see.

"The botanically astute FBI agent is absolutely correct." Walter said with a flourish. "This is indeed an orchid. _Cypripedium calceolus_, to be exact, known as the Lady's Slipper, an evocative, if somewhat inaccurate name. It is rather lovely isn't it?"

"I guess, Walter." Peter said without sounding remotely convincing. "What's it got to do with the case?"

Walter moved the orchid to one side and took out his microscope.

"Remember the blood at the scene? It had no leucocytes."

"No what?" Astrid looked up from the screen.

"Leucocytes." Peter explained. "White blood cells which fight infection. Without them there's nothing to fight off any disease, the common cold would kill you."

"So if the blood in the woman's body had no white blood cells", Astrid began, "How was she alive?"

"A good question…" Walter admitted "…and one which vexed me Astrid. Since we arrived back, I've been running every test I can think of, biomechanical, mineral, parasitalogical, even for formaldehyde…"

Astrid wrinkled her nose.

"What on earth for, Walter?"

Peter laughed.

"To make sure they're not zombies, Astrid, I'm guessing." Walter shot his son a glance.

"You should learn to expand the parameters of your thinking, Peter, its narrowness does you no credit. There are documented examples of zombification from the Caribbean…"

"Walter…." Olivia's voice was gentle but firm.

"Yes, yes, of course." Walter was back on track. "One of the last tests I performed was to look for biological anomalies in the blood serum. Which brings us back to the _Cypripedium_ here." He moved the Orchid back front and centre.

"Orchids can grow in soils that can't support other plant life. Under deep shade, on soils devoid of nutrients. They can do it because they grow only in consort with a species of fungi which grows in and around its roots. The fungi draws up nutrients from the soil over an area a hundred times bigger than the orchids own roots can reach. It keeps the plant alive, and it can move to find the pockets of nutrients in the soil."

"All fascinating Walter, but the case…."

"Patience, Son. The biological anomalies I found in the woman's blood were fungal spores. Specifically the same species of fungi as the one which supports the growth of this particular orchid, genetically modified of course."

Peter walked up to his father and looked down the microscope.

"So you're saying that she was suffering from a fungal infection?" Walter shook his head.

"This isn't Athlete's Foot, Peter. I have a theory, but I'd like to check it out before I say too much more."

"You guys," Astrid was looking at her computer screen. "We've got a match on the facial recognition software. The guy on the video footage raised a flag on the US Army database. He's called Patrick Malone, and he was a master sergeant in the 2nd Ranger Battalion."

Olivia walked over.

"Was? He's been discharged?"

"In a way, yes." She looked up at Olivia. "According to this, he was killed in a training accident at Fort Benning, Georgia in 2002."

Peter rubbed his eyes.

"Everyone in this case keeps coming up dead."

Olivia was already gathering up her coat.

"Come on Peter, we're going to Georgia."

**ATLANTIC AIR FLIGHT 261, 60 MILES NE of CLEVELAND, OHIO**

"Would you like another coffee, Mr Lake?" The stewardess smiled as _Bobcat_ declined and she moved to the next seat in business class. The name on Bobcat's air ticket was Robin Lake, but it was no more his real name than Bobcat was.

He always flew business class. His outrageous fee allowed it and whilst he wasn't ostentatious, his business took him all over the continental United States, so he viewed the extra legroom and the access to CNN as a business perk. He was watching the local Vermont news feed on the seat back TV screen. He wasn't expecting anything in particular, so he was genuinely surprised when the photographs of subjects 1 and 9 flashed on the screen. He called the stewardess back.

"On second thoughts, I will have that coffee."

He watched the Montpelier PD Captain's press conference, and once it had finished, he called the stewardess over again.

"Hi, can you tell me how long it will be before we land?" She looked at her watch.

"We'll be arriving at Burlington in around an hour, sir." He smiled his thanks and waited for her to move out of earshot. Once she had gone, he lifted the airphone and ran his credit card through it, then he dialled the number.

"We have a problem."

"I know. Find them before the local police do."

**WILLIAM H MORSE AIRPORT, BENNINGTON, VERMONT**

Patrick Malone and the woman, who's drivers licence stated she was called Rebecca Benson, but who's real name was Debbie Nichols, pulled up in the airport car park in an old Hyundai they'd bought for $600 in a rural garage well off the beaten track. Debbie's hair was darker and cropped short, and her brown eyes hidden behind blue contacts. Both her and Patrick, who's driver's licence bore the name Gregory Mendlesson were wearing false teeth, and Patrick wore an extremely expensive wig. They had planned the moment carefully and months in advance, spending every penny they had saved on a range of professionally forged documents and carefully crafted disguises. They'd bought the MAC-10's and dumped them in the lake, having already fed-exed a shotgun and two 9mm Brownings to their safe house in California. Of course money wasn't a problem now – they'd each paid $3000 of their stolen money into a pre-paid credit card at a tiny rural post office, and the rest was stashed in their luggage. They were ready.

They walked into the terminal, which was a grand name for the small two-storey office block that stood over the concrete apron. Malone looked at the departures board, and walked over to the booking desk.

Five minutes later he walked out to the car they planned to abandon in the airport car park and walked round to the passenger side and Debbie rolled the window down.

"Where are we going to?"

"Sussex County Airport, Delaware. From there it's Witchita, Kansas and from there it's Murray Field, Eureka, California."

Debbie rolled her eyes.

"How long?"

"24 hours. It'll be difficult to follow though, so it's worth it."

They took their luggage from the boot of the car, locked it and threw the keys into a sewer grate, and began their torturous route across the country.


	7. Chapter 7

**PACIFIC GROVE, NORTHERN CALIFORNIA**

Their last customer of the morning was a 9 year old Collie called Bess. Bess had early onset arthritis, and came in once a week for a steroid injection. Chance had not successfully managed to make himself particularly useful, but him and Graham had managed to choreographed their movements so that they at least weren't getting under each other's feet, and Chance gave the impression of professionalism, even if it was a million miles from the truth.

Chance had found the experience surprisingly difficult. He had been trained to suppress his compassion and whilst he was working for the Old Man, he'd successfully been able to do it, but as his decency had bubbled to the fore, he found himself particularly drawn to those who couldn't defend themselves. Seeing a succession of sick and injured animals, many of them dogs, had pricked something within him.

"You're thinking of Carmine aren't you?" Chance looked round at Graham's remark. Graham smiled. "Everyone does it. It's taken me years to stop seeing my dogs on the table." Chance shrugged.

"I guess." He looked at Graham carefully as the Vet put away the syringes and drugs they'd used to treat Bess. Winston's phone call had come as no real surprise. Something was off from the get-go, they'd both felt it and so when Winston had told him what Guerrero and Ames had found out, he'd taken it in his stride. What he hadn't done was confront Graham, feeling that it would accomplish little until he had more solid information on the real identities of his clients. If someone had gone to the lengths of taking the identity and work history of a dead doctor (even if they hadn't done their homework well enough), then they were hiding from something bigger than an ex-colleague with a grudge. Experience had told Chance that confronting a client wouldn't help. If they were running from an evil past, well then he'd find out. Until then, they were still his clients, and still clearly terrified of something, and he was better waiting for reliable information, and Guerrero was a better source of that than anything likely to come out of Graham's mouth at this point.

"Post's here!" Graham's receptionist brought the late morning post through to the surgery. Graham flicked through it as Chance wiped down the examination table. He looked up to see Graham starring at an envelope.

"What is it?"

Graham handed the envelope over to Chance without looking at him. Chance took it and turned it over in his hand. The postmark was from Washington DC and the address was typed with a manual typewriter. He tore it open and read the four words typed on the paper.

"Well, look on the bright side, it'll be over soon." Graham stared at him, eyes wide. Chance passed the letter back and Graham ran his eyes over it reading each word.

_We're coming for you._

**FORT BENNING, GEORGIA**

"I'm sorry Agent, but General Danton is in a meeting and can't be disturbed." The private who was General Clayton A. Danton's secretary hadn't yet seen his 20th birthday, and Olivia was in no mood to waste time being played around with by some army hard-hat. She leaned over the desk and Peter smiled slightly as he took in just how much like a suburban office the General's office was.

"Private, if you don't bring the General out of his meeting now, I'll ring my boss, who'll ring his boss, who'll ring your General's boss and he'll come out here, just a lot more embarrassed than he'd be if you just go and get him now. Save us all the cost of a phone call, and go get him."

The Private looked nervous and decided that perhaps he ought to give the General the chance to make his own mind up. He hurried from his desk and disappeared through a door on his right. Peter laughed.

"You just love making the brass squirm, don't you?"

Olivia shrugged.

"Perk of the job. Don't tell me you don't enjoy it!"

"Hey, it's usually the highlight of my day, watching you dismantle some pompous idiot."

As if on cue, the General thundered out of his meeting, the Private who's summoned him nowhere to be seen. He was a tall, white-haired man in fatigues, with a pencil moustache and a face as red as beetroot.

"Agent, I don't know who your boss is but…"

Olivia cut him off. It had already been a long day and this was no way to top it off.

"General, save your breath and let's get past the bluster and threats because I'm too tired to pretend I'm intimidated. My name is Olivia Dunham, and this is Peter Bishop, we're with the FBI." Peter waved a cheery hand, mainly because he knew it would piss the general off. Olivia continued. "You were in command of Master sergeant Patrick Malone when he was killed in a training accident in 2002, is that correct?"

Danton stared at both of them.

"You got me out of a staff meeting for this?" He thundered. Olivia ignored him and thrust a photograph at him, lifted from the Bank's security camera.

"Is this him?"

Danton looked at the photograph.

"It might be, it's been a while. It looks like him."

"How did he die?" Olivia had already read the JAG report, but wanted to hear it from Danton's mouth.

"He was killed in a live-fire exercise, he was shot by a .50 caliber machine-gun."

"Then how do you explain the fact that this photograph was taken yesterday morning by a Vermont bank security camera, a bank Sergeant Malone held up."

"Mistaken identity. Agent Dunham is it? This is absurd. He's dead, he died on base on August 16th, 2002. How can he rob a bank if he's dead?"

"Once he had been declared dead, where was he taken?" It was Peter, and Olivia could see his mind racing.

"I don't know. They usually take them to the County morgue in Columbus. I suppose that's where he went."

"No he didn't. I've already checked. They never received his body." Olivia stepped closer to the now confused general. "So where did he go?"

Danton said nothing, but picked up the 'phone.

"Get Hellos in my office now!" He put the phone down and turned to Olivia. "I've asked my Senior Corpsman to answer that – he was on call the day Malone was killed, he'll know where the body was taken."

The door behind them opened and a slightly younger, stockier man appeared behind them. He saluted the General and stood at ease.

"What's going on Clay?"

"Tom, these two agents are with the FBI. They have questions about Malone in 2002." He turned to Olivia. "I'll leave you in Captain Hellos's hands." Without giving her the chance to contradict him, the General turned on his heels and disappeared through the door, slamming it behind him. Olivia turned to Hellos.

"Captain Hellos, where was the body of Sergeant Malone taken?"

Hellos thought for a second.

"I remember because it was so weird. Normally on-base deaths go to the county morgue in Columbus, but in this case, he was transferred to a Private medical facility in North Carolina somewhere. I seem to remember that it was at the request of his parents. They lived in Charlotte, I think."

"Do you have the name of it?"

"I can find it – follow me please."

They followed Hellos across the base, past jeeps and helicopters and several companies of marching soldiers. Eventually they reached the base medical centre and Hellos left them in the reception area as he checked his files. He emerged after ten minutes, and handed Olivia a photocopied form.

"The company was called New Medical Solutions Inc, of Greenville, North Carolina. The address is on the form."

Olivia took it and thanked Hellos, and she and Peter were escorted from the base. Once back in the SUV and beyond the base fences Olivia looked at the form carefully.

"There's something not right about this."

Peter shrugged.

"You worked with JAG when you were a Marine – you ever see an on-base death that didn't involve JAG and the local cops?"

Olivia shook her head.

"No, it's a new one on me. And I don't believe that his parents asked for him to be moved there either." She rubbed her eyes and looked at her watch. "Let's find somewhere to stay tonight. I'll get Astrid to send me Malone's parents phone number."

They drove back towards Columbus, more confused than they were before they'd arrived.

**TEN-TWENTY OFF RAMP INN, COLUMBUS, GEORGIA**

They sat in the bar, at a table littered with beer bottles. The sky outside the bay window was purple and ugly, with thunderheads over to the east sparking with lightning. The wind had freshened and the barman, the only other person in the place, had warned them that the county was on Tornado watch for the night.

Somewhere in the background, the jukebox was running through the back catalogue of The Doors. At the moment, they were halfway through The End. Olivia had spoken to Malone's parents earlier and they confirmed what Olivia already knew, that they had not asked to move their son home. Nor did they know about New Medical Solutions Inc. She had decided that they would call on that particular company on the way back to Boston.

Now she and Peter were doing what they always did in times like this. They were getting loaded.

"You don't really think he's dead, right?" Olivia was staring at the top of her half-full beer bottle, turning it over lazily in her hand.

"Dead and Robbing banks? No. If a misspent youth taught me anything, it's that zombies eat your brains, they don't rob banks."

"Peter, I'm being serious!"

Peter looked at Olivia. Her brow was furrowed and her eyes were dark.

"He's not dead. I know Walter has some pretty outlandish ideas, but even he doesn't think that the body goes round performing felonies after death. I'm not saying it isn't weird but come on, we've done enough of these now to realise that there'll be some frankly disgusting, but perfectly valid scientific explanation." She turned her head and smiled at him. It looked tired but genuine.

"How come you always know the right thing to say?" Olivia looked like she regretted it the second the words were out of her mouth. She turned her attention back to the beer bottle.

Peter noticed, but he carried on regardless.

"It's what partners do. Besides, you did hear the bit about it probably being disgusting, right?" He sat back on the chair and took a swig of beer. "It'll be a virus, or some brain parasite or something equally gross-out, and that, ladies and gentlemen, is when you want Walter Bishop on your side."

It was a decent stab at a gag, but it didn't really shake Olivia out of her funk. She'd been in it ever since she had returned home. Walter had explained it away as being a hangover from what must have been an extraordinary effort on her part to return home. Broyles had thought it was post-traumatic stress disorder, and both explanations had made sense, but Peter feared that it was neither of those things. He worried that it was his betrayal with the other Olivia, the imposter, that had brought down the cloud of sadness over her. It hadn't been deliberate, but it had happened, and it could not be undone. Neither of them trusted easily, and both had been betrayed, but the deceit played out against him made Peter feel worse, not better.

They had discussed it once, just after her return, and the subject had never really come up again. Not because Olivia had screamed and shouted, but because she hadn't. She had waved it off, but it was a pretence neither of them really believed. The resentment had lurked beneath the surface, manifested as difficult silences and forced conversations when they were in company. It sucked, and even though weeks had passed, it wasn't getting better. Peter was sick of the eggshells he was tiptoeing across, and of the pain he felt every time he looked at her. They had to move past it, one way or the other.

What bothered Peter most of all was that he wasn't able to do what he would have done before anymore – move on to some place else. It wasn't just Walter, though things were better now he had a better perspective on his Father's actions. It wasn't the work either, though he'd come to see his work with Fringe Division as almost redemptive – his own personal penance for an earlier life not lived honestly. Leaving those two things would now be agonising, but he could still do it. It was Olivia that made him stay, no matter how broken they were, he couldn't leave her. At least not whilst there was any hope at all that there might be a happy ending. He surprised himself by smiling at the thought. He turned to Olivia, who was still concentrating too hard on her beer bottle.

"Look, Liv…" he began, not really sure of what to say "….we need to talk about this."

She turned her eyes to his and he saw that they swam in pain and tiredness.

"We really don't Peter, I thought I'd made myself clear – I don't want you. I don't think there's anything else to say is there?"

"We can't carry on like this."

Olivia was silent for a second. She turned her head to watch the approaching storm through the bar windows.

"No, I guess not."

Peter waited for her to speak, but no words came, just a single tear that she blinked, then quickly wiped away. It made Peter's stomach turn over.

"Liv…" he whispered, but she cut him off.

"I can't do this Peter. I lost John, who lied to me, I went over there for you, and I suffered things you can't begin to imagine and when I get back I find out you had been screwing her." She spat the last word out. She turned her face to his, a picture of despair and anger. "How could you not know, Peter? You of all people?"

He started to answer, but stopped, because he didn't have one. She saw and smiled bitterly.

"That's what I thought." She downed the rest of her beer and stood up. "We leave at 8am tomorrow – we're on a flight to Wilmington at 10. Let's just do our job."

"Liv!"

Peter called after her but she was gone, walking through the doors without a backward look and Peter was alone in the bar, with just the Doors, the distant roll of thunder and the sympathetic gaze of an older and wiser bartender for company.

Olivia made it to her room, and just managed to shut the door before she dissolved, sobbing, sliding down the door and collapsing to the floor, inconsolable.

Olivia Dunham had never been a big fan of philosophy. She had never spent time considering the cosmological implications of how her life had evolved. She didn't believe in luck, nor did she particularly believe that it was her lot in life to suffer. If you gave Olivia Dunham lemons, she might not make lemonade, but she'd find something useful to do with them. That her life had been difficult was a given – her stepfather and his brutality, her Mom's death, the Cortexiphan trials, however she was proud that she had turned these difficulties into a positive. Plus she had her job, and she had Rachel and Ellie. There were good things too, but at this moment they seemed so far out of her grasp. She was home, and the irony was that she had never felt so lonely.

One thing that her early years had burned into her was that she did not Trust easily. She trusted Rachel more than anyone else on the planet. She trusted Broyles because he had earned it. She trusted Astrid for the same reason. She had trusted John Scott, and look where that had got her. She had trusted Peter, and that betrayal was even worse.

He had to know that she wouldn't believe that he hadn't been able to tell Fauxlivia from her. She had just spent time in the other universe and she knew every difference, no matter how slight and seemingly unimportant. He came from there too, of course – they must have had a connection, a subliminal bond that had overpowered his undoubted sense of decency and loyalty. She had spent five minutes in Fauxlivia's company and she couldn't believe that Peter wouldn't spot the imposter immediately. That left only one alternative, and that was too painful to contemplate

She loved him, of course, otherwise she wouldn't be sat on the floor of her hotel room, chest hitching from the effort of her sobbing, the worst having passed. Olivia hauled herself from the floor and slumped down on the bed. She loved Peter Bishop, and he had hurt her, wounded her in fact. At least he had the decency to see that. She smiled bitterly at the irony of it all. Peter was unrecognisable from the shady, feckless chancer she'd first met in Baghdad three years ago. He was a brave, he had not just taken responsibility for Walter, but he'd seen past what could only be described as a monstrous betrayal. It was clear that no matter how dreadful things were between them, he would wait it out.

It was her, the stable and reliable one, who had decided that, once this case was over, she was going to leave and no-one was going to be able to find her.

**MONTPELIER POLICE DEPARTMENT, MONTPELIER, VERMONT**

Bobcat walked into the offices of the Montpelier Police Department in a dark suit and glasses. He walked up to the desk and flashed his fake and monumentally expensive US Marshalls I.D.

"My name is Andrew Burman and I believe you're on the heels of two of my fugitives."

The Desk Sergeant looked confused, and Bobcat produced two photographs and placed them on the desk in front of him.

"His name is Malone and hers is Nichols." The lies came easily – they were part of the reason why Bobcat could charge so outrageously for his services. "They hit a bunch of banks across the South from Montgomery to Eldorado Springs in the early 2000's. We caught him in Moss Point, Mississippi and he was doing 25 years hard time in Parchman's Farm when he busted out 8 months ago." He took the photos back. "They're your guys, right?"

The desk sergeant nodded and Bobcat smiled.

"So where are they?"

Once clear of the Police Station, Bobcat walked to his car and rang his client.

"The Local PD doesn't have a clue."

"Good. So what are you going to do now?"

"They've both kept their heads down until yesterday morning, so I was thinking, why surface now? It's got to be for a specific purpose. I think they might be using the money for funding something – any idea what it might be?"

There was a short silence.

"Try Fenton. Last I heard he was trying to start a new life under the name Ronald Graham in Pacific Grove, California." Bobcat heard a humourless laugh. "He was going to be your next job anyway."

Bobcat snapped the phone closed and fired up his car. It looked like he'd be racking up the frequent flyer miles this month.


	8. Chapter 8

**SALINAS, NORTHERN CALIFORNIA**

Malone and Nicholls had no problem hiring a car and drove the thirty miles from Eureka to their rental house in Salinas leisurely. Once they'd got the keys, Malone made the place safe by fitting webcams and surveillance cameras watching the front and back exits, as Nichols drove out to pick up the guns and papers they'd sent on from the Salinas post office.

She was feeling no ill-effects from the gunshot wounds, though an examination of her torso in the shower once she'd returned from the Post Office, had revealed a series of weird scars, and each seemed to be moving and rippling slightly. It looked slightly disturbing but it didn't hurt, in fact it felt rather pleasant, a warm buzz that seemed to pulse from each scar. She was healing, and for once her situation felt like a boon, not a curse. It felt natural, so different from the medical mutilation she and the other inmates had been subjected to.

Malone she had seen in the labs but never spoken to. He only approached her after she had escaped, one of five who had run from the fire and escaped the confines of the godforsaken place. She'd never again seen the other survivors, and was trying, unsuccessfully to rebuild her life when Malone had tracked her down.

He had taken her to a Diner and they'd swapped stories. He had been in the Army and had been shot in an accident and come round in a whitewashed aluminium lab. She had been Driving down the I-35 in a snowstorm and had been hit by a Mack semi, blacked out and come round in a whitewashed lab. They had both been tortured. Repeatedly. Cut, burned and shredded by faceless people in white gowns and masks. She's hated those monsters to her core, each had a name in her mind, a way of remembering them so that she could give her rage a face. Even on the outside, she remembered each one and her anger burned dull and hot, making normal life impossible. Malone had been her saviour. He had shared her experience, and he shared her rage. He also provided a face and a name to one of their tormentors, and between them, they acquired an address and they set about making his life hideous.

The letters were the start – beginning cryptic but becoming more explicit. It served his purpose as they planned, and now they were almost there. The hot water ran in rivulets over her healing body, and as Nichols stood in the shower, she felt 8 years of anger and self-loathing transform into empowerment.

This time tomorrow, their tormentor would taste the agony he had subjected them to. With interest.

**SAN FRANCISCO, CALIFORNIA**

Guerrero was tired, but only the two or three people in the world who knew him well would be able to tell. He had moved from Winston's office when the big man's pacing and constant questions had proved too much for his fragile good nature to take.

He had re-located to the coffee shop across the road and was on his second latte and an hour into a good playlist on his ipod, trawling through the AMA database trying to find something in the history of the real Ronald Graham that matched other entries on the AMA database. It was a long shot, but he had to start somewhere.

Guerrero was the most intelligent man he knew. As with some of the most brilliant men, that awesome intellect often came with a certain emotional and moral ambivalence. Guerrero had never really questioned why that might be, but on occasion he mused that by unshackling his moral and ethical brakes, he was freeing his intellect of any artificial bonds. This made him exceptionally dangerous, but it also meant that when he set his mind on a task like this, he was a human database, and could make leaps of logic that no computer programme, regardless of its power, could match.

Even so, his task was a needle in a haystack deal. What Guerrero had wanted to do, had been to drive down to Pacific Grove with a bottle of household bleach and a syringe and get his answers from 'Graham' the effective and old-fashioned way, just like the Old Man had taught him. He didn't voice this view because it would be pointless – neither Chance nor Winston would buy it, and he found himself affected by the way that Ames looked at him when he made suggestions like that, so here he was, ordering his third coffee, sat at his laptop burning time on a one in a million chance.

Guerrero lifted his glasses, rubbed his eyes and smiled his thanks at the pretty waitress that brought over his third cup of coffee.

"Take a break sweetheart" she said to him sympathetically, "You look half dead."

Guerrero did a double-take.

"What did you say?"

The waitress looked horrified.

"I'm sorry, Sir, I didn't mean to…"

Guerrero smiled. How had he missed that? He took a fifty from his wallet.

"Don't worry, babe." He handed her the money. "You keep the change – you earned it." Confused but happy with her huge tip, the waitress walked away.

For the pretend Graham to have adopted the real Graham's identity, he had to have known of the real Graham's death before the AMA had been informed. The chances were that the pretend Graham had either worked with the real Graham, or at least in the same town, at the same time. Sometimes the answers were so obvious that they refused to be seen. Guerrero felt like slapping himself.

The real Ronald Graham had died whilst working at the Cedar Springs Medical Centre in Greenville, North Carolina in 2002. Guerrero found 8 other doctors who had worked there at the same time. Three were women, one was now in his seventies and retired to France in 2008. The second name he checked of the remaining four doctors was the one. For a start, he had no record after 2002. He hadn't moved anywhere, he hadn't been charged with misconduct and struck off. He hadn't died, according to the database, he had just ceased to exist.

"Amateur" Guerrero said quietly to himself, and he smiled as he took out his phone. Chance answered immediately.

"Who's the man, Dude?"

"You are, I guess. Why are you the Man, Guerrero?"

"Because I found your guy. His name is Leonard Fenton, born 29th January, 1952 in Springs Mill, Wisconsin. He worked in the same Medical Centre as the real Graham at the time he died in 2002." He paused, reading the rest of Fenton's employment history. "There's something off about this guy."

"What?" Chance had learned a long time ago to rely on Guerrero's sense of distrust implicitly.

"The guy graduated Johns Hopkins in 76, and went to work for USAMRIID in 1979"

"For who?"

"USAMRIID – United States Army Medical Research Institute for Infectious Diseases. He worked there until 2000, when he appeared at Cedar Springs Medical Centre in Greenville North Carolina. Then two years later he falls off the planet and Ronald Graham gets a second chance at life." He paused. "You know what they say about walking and quacking, Dude."

Chance laughed at the other end of the phone.

"Yeah, if it walks like a duck, and quacks like a duck…..You think this guy is a spy?"

"I don't know what he is, but I do know that they mess with some pretty heavy stuff at USAMRIID, and someone went to a lot of trouble and expense to give this guy a new identity. Given that they screwed it up, my guess is that it's probably the CIA."

"Any chance you can dig up what he did before he started treating hamsters?"

"I can but try."

"Thanks Guerrero, I owe you one."

"I'll add it to the list, Dude."

Guerrero terminated the call and went to find Winston. Hacking the AMA database was one thing, but going after the US Military's top medical secrets was quite another, particularly if the CIA were involved as well. He was going to need all the help he could get.

**GREENVILLE, NORTH CAROLINA**

The flight had been horrible. Not only did they hardly exchange a word for the two hours they were in the air, but the only flight they could find was on a tiny two-engined turboprop, so it was uncomfortably close. If Olivia was upset after their conversation last night, she hid it behind a wall of indifference. Peter had tried to strike up conversation a couple of times, but the monosyllabic responses had crushed any fantasies he might have had that they could pretend last night, or the previous few months hadn't happened. Once they touched down in Greenville and picked up the rental car, it wasn't any better. Instead of conversation, Olivia had snapped the radio on, and they'd cruised through suburban Greenville listening to some horrendous AM classic rock station and Peter was relieved when they finally pulled into the car park of New Medical Solutions.

The NMS complex was a series of single and two storey buildings built around a large open expanse of short cropped lawns, benches, apple and pear trees. They arrived around lunchtime, and there were a few people sat outside, enjoying an unseasonally warm late autumn day and eating their lunch or smoking. The guard at the gatehouse directed them to a car park close to the main administrative building. They got out of the car and Peter looked around.

"Looks like a college campus, doesn't it?"

Olivia shrugged.

"I guess."

"The sort of place you might do medical research."

They walked into the building and up to the reception desk.

"Special Agent Olivia Dunham and Peter Bishop to see Iain McLennan." Olivia waited by the desk as Peter examined the contents of the leaflet rack in the reception area and the pretty young receptionist used the phone.

"Someone is coming down to escort you to Mr McLennan's office. Would you like to take a seat?"

Olivia declined the receptionists offer politely and after a minute or so, a tall, muscular man appeared behind them.

"Agents Dunham and Bishop? Follow me please."

Olivia and Peter wordlessly followed the man through a maze of corridors and stairwells, to the point that Peter began to feel that they were deliberately being disorientated. Eventually, they arrived at a set of oak-panelled double doors, which their guide opened for them but didn't follow them through. Waiting for them in an office littered with photographs and pot plants, was a small, wiry grey-haired man with a buzz-cut. He offered his had to both and Peter noticed his fierce grip.

"Agents, I'm Iain McLennan."

Peter smiled.

"She's an Agent, I'm a civilian consultant. Peter is just fine." McLennan smiled but it didn't look particularly sincere. He took a seat behind his desk and directed Olivia and Peter to chairs across the desk from him. Olivia took hers, but Peter walked over to the far wall and began examining some photographs.

"You said this was about a former patient…?"

Olivia took out her notepad.

"You are the CEO of New Medical Solutions, is that right?"

McLennan nodded.

"I formed the company in 1988 to make common vaccines - flu, cholera, rabies. We've grown pretty quickly and now are in the top 20 medical research companies in America. What's this about, please?"

Olivia took out the photograph of Patrick Malone and handed it to McLennan.

"Do you recognise this man?"

McLennan looked at it carefully and handed it back.

"I'm afraid not."

"Well…" began Olivia, "…in 2002 he was killed in a live-fire training exercise at Fort Benning in Georgia. It seems, immediately after he died, he was brought here. Why would that be the case?"

McLennan shrugged.

"I don't know. I can have our records checked for you if you like." He picked up the telephone. "Terri, can you dig out the records for a Mr Patrick Malone, 2002 and have them sent to reception please?" He put the phone down. "The records will be available to you when you leave. Now, do you want to tell me what this is about?"

Olivia kept her gaze steady.

"It's just an on-going investigation. Do you know why Mr Malone was brought here?"

"I don't know – the records should tell you. We did do organ harvesting for the hospitals in Greenville and Wilmington at the time. Perhaps Mr Malone was an organ donor?"

"Mr McLennan, what kind of medical research do you do here?" It was Peter. McLennan smiled.

"We do the full range of medical research here – we still concentrate on vaccines, but we also do other drug trials, pathology, parasitology, surgical technique and equipment testing…it's all proprietary information of course, so I can't give details. You understand, of course."

It was Peter's turn to smile.

"Of course. I guess from these photographs, you have an interest in Tropical Medicine?"

McLennan got up and walked over, nothing insincere about the look of pride on his face.

"Yes indeed. I did a spell with Medicin Sans Frontiers in the 1980's. Central America and Africa mainly. I started New Medical Solutions in part to try and find cheap, sustainable vaccines for diseases like Bilharzia, Yellow fever and Chagas Disease."

Peter examined the photographs carefully.

"Good for you, Mr McLennan."

McLennan turned from Peter to Olivia.

"If the records on Mr Malone turn up anything, please let me know."

Olivia nodded and stood up.

"Thank you for your time."

They collected Malone's records from the front office reception, and the site guards practically but politely ran them off the premises. Once they were clear of the site, Olivia found a roadside diner to stop in and they had coffee while Olivia poured over the files. She looked them over silently for half an hour, before taking her glasses off and rubbing the bridge of her nose.

"Just like McLennan said. According to this, Malone was an organ donor and NMS removed his liver and corneas for transplant on 16th May 2002 for a donation to a patient in Mercy Hospital, Wilmington the next day. I can't believe that. I can't believe that his parents didn't know he was a donor, I can't believe JAG would let them take the body before formal investigation, and I can't believe McLennan would pluck it out of the air and get all the details right."

Peter stared into his coffee mug.

"He's CIA, or maybe ex-Army."

Olivia looked up.

"McLennan? How do you know?"

"The Photographs on his wall were captioned. He was in Nicaragua in 1983, El Salvador and Angola in '84 and Ethiopia in 1985."

Olivia looked confused.

"So?"

"So, we were in Nicaragua in 1983 – remember? We were in El Salvador in 1984, and we had people in Ethiopia in 1985 helping the Eritreans. Cold war hot spots, and he was there when they were at their hottest. That's not the only thing – did you see all the plants? Every single one was an orchid. Neither of us believe in coincidence, so the question is who the hell is Mr McLennan?"

Olivia looked at him. After all that had happened to question her view of Peter as a man, she'd completely forgotten his skills as her Partner. She shrugged it off.

"OK – it that was the case, how do we confirm it?"

"We start by checking that the records on Malone are right. Then we call Broyles to see if we can get some background on Mr McLennan without setting any alarm bells ringing."


	9. Chapter 9

**MONTEREY, NORTHERN CALIFORNIA**

Bobcat arrived at his rental place around noon. The property was a cliff-top chalet with large, secluded grounds and tight security. The rental firm specialised in out-of-way retreats for movie stars and although expensive, Bobcat was good enough at his job to be able to afford it, plus according to his tax records, it was all deductible. The wooden building overlooked the wild cliffs and stone pine woodlands of the Northern Californian coastline. The location was remote, wild, and perfect for Bobcat. He could see fulmars and gulls darting and soaring in the air from he chairs on the veranda. It was perfect.

He had a cup of tea first, then he checked that the security systems were working, and finally he began to unpack. Clothes were first, followed by toiletries and a few groceries he'd asked the rental company to have delivered for him. Finally, he went back to the rental car and lifted out his two work cases from the boot of the car and carried them back into the house. He laid both cases on the bed and opened them in turn.

The first contained a laptop and mobile fax machine, and he plugged both in. It also contained two files, one each for Malone and Nichols. As soon as the laptop had warmed up, Bobcat's phone rang. He answered it.

"I've had a visit from the FBI – they're onto Malone. You need to shut this down now – Malone, Nichols, Fenton, all of it."

"If the FBI are onto Nichols already, then they will track him down. If they're gunning for Fenton, then our paths might cross. What are the rules of engagement?"

"I'll fax you the data on Fenton and I'll get the Agency to forward the details of the FBI agents to you. Do what you have to do to completely shut this down, no matter what the implications. You will be protected."

Bobcat snapped the phone closed, terminating the call. Immediately after doing so, the fax chattered into life and several pages of information on Doctor Leonard Fenton, including his new name and address. He memorised the contents as he had been trained to do and then burned them in the fireplace.

He then opened the second suitcase. In it were the tools of his trade, cameras, directional microphones, infra-red detectors and, in a hidden compartment, a Steyr TMP machine-pistol, and a Rock Island Arsenal Sniper Rifle. They were dismantled for transport and Bobcat didn't reassemble them. Instead, happy that everything was present and correct, he closed the second case and stashed it under the bed. He left the laptop and fax machine running before taking a look at his watch and deciding that it was time for some lunch.

**HARVARD UNIVERSITY, MASSACHUSETTS**

Peter and Olivia arrived back in the lab and it was clear, even to Walter, that the atmosphere between them was frosty at best. Both were glum-faced and on arrival Olivia went straight into her office and closed the door behind her whereas Peter stomped into the kitchen seeking out coffee. When he re-appeared he walked over to Walter, who regarded him with sympathy.

"She'll come round, Peter."

Peter looked at the closed door.

"I'm not sure Walter, she's pretty pissed. I can't say as I blame her."

"Nonsense! That imposter had us all fooled. Perhaps I should talk to Olivia…"

"I think it's gone beyond that Walter." He put his hand on Walter's shoulder appreciatively. "Thanks anyway." Walter smiled sadly at him and Peter patted him affectionately. It was a strangely comforting irony that he had gone over there hating his Father and desperate for Olivia and now him and Olivia could barely stand to be in the same room, whereas he was now finding a new appreciation for Walter. "Best thing you can do is to figure out what's going on."

The door swung open and Broyles and Astrid walked in.

"Peter, where's Olivia?" The younger Bishop gestured at the door to Olivia's office and Broyles walked in without knocking. Astrid walked over to Peter and Walter.

"I went over to FBI field office to find out more about your Mr McLennan. Complete dead end. Broyles is convinced he's CIA and he's got some friend at Homeland Security checking him out. I also found out that New Medical Solutions did have a contract with USAMRIID until four years ago, but the nature of the contract was classified. The codename for the project USAMRIID had sub-contracted to New Medical Solutions was 'Orchid'." She looked between the two men. "Does that make any sense to either of you?"

Peter shrugged.

"I had the guy pegged as a spook, but that's about it." He turned to Walter. "What about you?"

Walter smiled.

"I can't speak to the politics of the situation, but I do know why the woman in the bank didn't die when she was shot." He took a bite from a huge toasted cheese sandwich and Olivia and Broyles appeared from her office. They walked over. Broyles looked at the sandwich hungrily before addressing the group.

"McLennan is ex-CIA, and I'm not sure just how ex he really is. He was involved in some pretty deep foreign black-ops doing God knows what as a 'medical consultant'. He was called back in 1988 and set up New Medical Solutions the year after, with start-up funds that we can't track, which suggests it's also a CIA front. NMS did have a range of legitimate contracts, but their budgets don't add up, spending far more than their income, but on what we can't trace. They shared some staff with local clinics and hospitals, but the whole thing is smoke and mirrors." He looked at each of them in turn. "If this is some kind of medical experimentation funded by the CIA, then we need to tread extremely carefully, and we should watch our backs." Broyles turned to Walter. "Dr Bishop, some inspiration would be appreciated right now."

Walter was ready.

"You will recall that I found fungal spores in the blood I recovered from the bank robbery scene?" Peter and Olivia nodded and Walter continued. "Well, I've been able to test the spores, and I think I know what's going on. The fungus is a genetically modified variation of a species which has a symbiotic relationship with Cypripedium orchids, well, I think this genetic modification allows the fungal growth to spread through a human's circulatory system and take on the function of damaged tissue. I posit that anyone 'infected' with this fungus would, if the fungal growth were extensive enough, be able to 'bypass damaged organs completely, and the fungus itself would function as the damaged organ. In the woman at the bank, the fungus was definitely operating instead of her immune system and it was probably extensive enough to take on the role of her circulatory system when she was shot. My problem is that I can't isolate what the fungus was modified with to alter its life-cycle so radically"

"Who could do this?" Olivia asked.

"This is extremely advanced work. Brilliant, really. It could make organ donation obsolete, there are limitless medical uses."

"Or, " Broyles began, "You could use it to make soldiers who would be unaffected by battlefield injuries – hence the CIA/USAMRIID interest."

"Yes, " Walter concluded "I suppose you could use it for that."

Peter was thinking along different lines.

"Walter, if this is cutting edge work, there can't be many people who could do this are there?" Walter shook his head. Peter continued. "We need a list of every employee who worked at NMS in 2002 when Malone was taken there. We also need to know why Malone broke cover now."

"I've been thinking about that." Olivia was musing aloud. "I guess Malone and his partner could be a modern Bonnie and Clyde, but I don't think so – Cho thought the woman amateurish, which doesn't suggest a hardened criminal. If they met at New Medical Solutions, perhaps that's what keeps them together. Also, if you were designed to be indestructible, how would that be tested?"

Walter and Broyles struggled to follow the logic, but Peter was ahead of them.

"You test their endurance. You torture them." His face wrinkled at the thought of what Malone and his partner must have been subjected to. He looked at Olivia. "What if they're funding a spot of revenge? We know one is an ex-Ranger…."

"Fine," Broyles had caught up. "But against who? McLennan?"

"I doubt it." It was Walter. "There were a number of people at St Claire's I'd happily kill, but they were the worst of the doctors and orderlies, not the head of the facility. These things are always personal." Peter put a guilty arm round Walter's shoulder and Walter smiled weakly.

"So we need to know who it was who worked with Malone and his partner." Broyles said.

They moved to Astrid's laptop, and using a train of logic that Guerrero had already travelled, they came up with the name of Ronald Graham, and an address in Pacific Grove, California. Peter and Olivia were in the air two hours later.

**PACIFIC GROVE, NORTHERN CALIFORNIA**

Chance was sat at the Graham's table. He was eating a very good plate of Linguini prepared by Mrs Graham. He had been struggling with his conscience as to whether to confront Graham, or Fenton, or whatever his name was, or wait until Winston and Guerrero had been able to score any more information. Normally he would have waded in straight after talking to Guerrero, but he hadn't done. He didn't like operating in an information vacuum and besides, it had hardly been a difficult job, but the memory of Katherine Walters was never far from his mind, and the idea that he might be working for the bad guys was itching at him. He knew that if he confronted Graham, he was going to get nothing and they would probably run. One thing was for sure, they weren't running from some pissed-off doctor holding a grudge after being looked over for some research grant.

Since his change in career, Chance had been beaten up, shot at regularly, drugged and threatened. This one, well the greatest threat to his well-being on this job was terminal boredom. Still, it made a change to have an easy job, and the linguini was outstanding, so there were perks, but he couldn't shake his sense of unease.

They were eating and swapping small-talk when the doorbell rang. Graham got up to answer it without much thought, but Chance put a hand on his arm.

"How many visitors do you normally get at this time of night?"

Graham and his wife looked at each other.

"Not many. Hardly any, in fact."

Chance got up and put his finger to his lips.

"Go upstairs and lock yourselves in the bathroom." Both Grahams looked confused, but Chance didn't have time to explain. There was a second, longer chime at the doorbell. "Go!"

The Grahams moved upstairs quickly and once Chance was sure that they were upstairs, he went slowly up to the door and opened it. At the door was a small, dark-haired woman in sports sweats and an overcoat. It felt all wrong.

"Hello, can I help you."

The woman looked Chance up and down.

"I'm looking for Ronald Graham. He in?"

"Sorry. He's in Europe." The woman raised an eyebrow.

"Really? So why is his car in the drive?"

Behind him, somewhere at the back of the house, Chance heard the crash of a broken window. He slammed the door shut but the woman had pushed her shoulder up to the door and it bounced open again. Chance had to make a decision fast – the woman was small and Chance felt he could subdue her easily. He didn't know who was coming in the back, and that was unacceptable. He ran into the back of the house and saw the man in black combat fatigues raise a 9mm and Chance dived for cover as four rounds punched into the wall above his head. In front of him, the woman also raised a Browning and Chance dived for the stairwell as she fired the gun, missing him by only inches. Chance was now cut off from any form of escape. Both the woman and the man appeared at the bottom of the stairs, and Chance knew he wasn't making it to the top.

"Don't do it." It was the man. "Stop and turn around." Chance complied.

"Now what do we do?"

The woman took a step forward, keeping the gun levelled at Chance.

"I don't know who you are, but we've got no trouble with you. Step aside and we'll let you walk out of here."

Chance smiled.

"Then you kill them and my prints are all over the house. I don't think so."

"Better to be alive and running than dead and innocent, right?"

Chance shrugged. He didn't have much choice anyway – he'd never make it to the top of the stairs before being cut down. He began down the stairs slowly until he got to the bottom and both intruders moved back slowly, guns trained carefully on him.

"Can I at least get my coat?" Both intruders looked confused.

"You're kidding, right?" Chance shrugged. He began to walk towards the front door and as he walked passed the man, he grabbed his gun arm and threw him over his hip, twisting the gun out of his hand, hauling him up as a human shield.

"Why don't you drop the gun before I kill your boyfriend here." Chance pressed the gun to the man's throat. She smiled and emptied two rounds into him. Chance staggered backwards, blood seeping from his chest, whereas the man fell to his knees, blood pumping from the gunshot wounds in his torso. Chance saw the woman raise her gun at his head and waited for the inevitable, when the window at the back of the entrance hall exploded and the woman fell to her knees too. Chance was confused, but had been given an opportunity he felt a second ago was gone. He struggled to his feet and staggered to the window, expecting Guerrero. There was no-one, though he may have caught a brief flash of something on the hill 600 yards behind the house. Sniper. Perhaps it was Guerrero, only a dozen men in the world could have made that shot at night, and Guerrero was the only one he wanted on his side.

His vision going, he turned round and saw both of the intruders were gone. That made no sense. He reached for his telephone and called Winston before the world blacked out.

**PACIFIC GROVE, NORTHERN CALIFORNIA**

Bobcat, rifle by his feet, looked at the photograph on the back of his digital camera.

He'd not been able to take out either Malone or Nichols. He'd aimed at Nichol's head but the round had been deflected by the glass and had hit her in the chest. Based on what he knew of his New Medical Solutions targets, that had been insufficient. By the time he'd lined up a second round, they were gone.

The man in his photograph, a tall, well-built guy with square jaw with the reflexes of an alley cat was an unexplained element, and that usually complicated his job. Somewhere behind him, sirens were wailing, which meant that his opportunity to walk into the house and make sure his two targets were dead would have to wait. As for Graham, well that just got more complicated as well. He'd had the chance to drop all four, but the unknown man had screwed it up. Were he not a consummate professional, Bobcat might have been monumentally pissed.

He had answers to get, and in his job, not getting them before finishing a contract was a quick way of getting caught or killed. He packed up his rifle and headed back towards the road as the blue lights flashed through the evening gloom.


	10. Chapter 10

**PACIFIC GROVE, NORTHERN CALIFORNIA**

"Dude, wake up!"

Chance came round to see Guerrero looking down at him. Behind him were the Grahams, looking terrified as Ames herded them towards the front door. He tried to speak but no noise came out. Guerrero seemed unconcerned.

"We've got two minutes before the cops arrive, so get moving."

"Jeez, Guerrero, I just got shot." Chance groaned through the not inconsiderable pain once his larynx had decided to function again. Guerrero smilled.

"Man, you are such a wuss, you want a medal? Get your ass up." He hauled Chance on his feet and all four of them moved to Guerrero's van. Graham and Chance got in the back and Guerrero gunned the engine and took off down the street. They missed the arriving Sheriff's Department by less than a minute.

Chance felt a sting on his arm and saw Graham sticking a syringe in it.

"Relax", Graham said, "This will help the pain." Chance coughed.

"Where are we going?"

"Safehouse, Dude. Eldorado National Forest. A buddy has an old hunting lodge. Take it easy, it's gonna take a while." He turned to Ames. "I'll drop you at my Caddy – get back to Winston and get some medical supplies together. Then drive them over to the address Winston gives you." Ames nodded, but the sight of blood and Chance in the back being treated had turned her white. Guerrero gently put his hand over hers. She snatched her head away from the back of the van and looked at Guerrero.

"Is he going to be alright?" Her voice was brittle.

"He'll be fine, but I need you to stay together, OK?" Slightly more confidently, Ames nodded her head and Guerrero mustered a smile.

Chance relaxed as the drugs started to work and he embraced unconsciousness when it arrived, before Guerrero had even managed to reach the place where he'd parked his caddilac.

**MONTEREY, NORTHERN CALIFORNIA**

Bobcat was sat watching the Browns beat hell out of the Chargers on TV, drinking a beer and picking at take-out. He'd sent the photograph of the man in Graham's house to his client twenty minutes ago by e-mail accompanied by a single sentence.

'Who is this and why is he at Graham's house?'

It was two minutes before half-time and in a snowstorm in Ohio and the Browns were already 23-7 up on the chargers when his e-mail notification warning pinged. Bobcat finished his Chinese meal and without taking his eyes off the game, he lifted his laptop off the bed. The Browns chose that moment to blast a 40 yard run over the hapless bolts defensive line and raise the score to 29-7.

"Game over." Bobcat sighed, and switched the TV onto silent, turning his attention to the laptop. He read the e-mail from his client carefully.

_The photograph is of a man called Christopher Chance. He is a freelance bodyguard but was previously an assassin for a private organisation. What we know of him is in the attached encrypted file, as is information on his two main associates. He has no known ties to law enforcement. He is not protected and nor are his associates so do not alter or delay completion of the contract regardless of his presence. He is skilled, however, so further resources, also in the attached file, are available to you._

Bobcat read the message again and began typing a response.

_Secondary target has been re-located. Can complete primary mission, however will require details on location of secondary target._

He waited, watching the half-time show. It was another half hour, and Bobcat had switched over to a nail-biter between the Jaguars and the Texans before he got his answer.

_Chance has an associate, ex SFPD detective Laverne Winston. He will know where secondary target is located. His address is attached. He is unprotected so you are authorised to use whatever means necessary to re-acquire secondary target._

Bobcat finished his Chinese meal and reluctantly switched the TV off with the Texans on the Jaguars 2 yard line. Memorising the address in the last e-mail, he picked up his bag and left.

**PACIFIC GROVE, NORTHERN CALIFORNIA**

Peter and Olivia pulled up to the police cordon and got out of the SUV. There was a throng of locals, reporters and hangers on milling about next to the yellow police tape. Olivia pushed her way through to the Deputy on crowd control.

"Olivia Dunham, FBI. I'm looking for Ronald Graham."

The Deputy lifted the tape and Olivia and Peter ducked under it.

"Get to the back of the queue, Agent," the Deputy added mirthlessly. "The Graham's are gone." Olivia walked over to the Graham house and passed through the front door. Officers and crime scene technicians were moving all over the house. On the hall carpet were three pools of blood, but the bodies were missing. Peter nudged Olivia.

"Remind you of anything?"

Olivia nodded, she'd already noted the similarity with the crime scene in the bank. She walked over to the Sheriff, who was standing in the dining room, looking at the three plates of food on the table.

"Linguini" he said to no-one in particular. "I could go a plate of that right now."

"Sheriff Handley?" She flashed her ID. "Agent Dunham, this is Peter Bishop. What happened here?"

The Sheriff shrugged.

"Gunfight. At least two people shot, but we've go no bodies and no bad guys."

"Did the Graham's have any police protection?"

The Sheriff shook his head.

"We offered, he was receiving death threat letters, but the Deputy who took the report couldn't get any information about the nature of the threat. We offered to do regular drive-by's but we don't have the manpower…"

"Who spoke to them?"

"Andrews!" The Sheriff shouted. A large black deputy walked over. "These Feds want to ask you about the Grahams."

Andrews took Olivia into the kitchen. Peter went to take some blood samples from the pools in the hall to send back to Walter.

Olivia closed the kitchen door.

"Why did the Grahams refuse help?"

Andrews looked at her.

"They wouldn't tell me the depth of the trouble they were in. They lied to me, and without explicit evidence, best I could offer was a regular drive-by. They weren't happy with that, so I suggested they looked at a private security solution."

"You mean a bodyguard?"

"Yeah. A guy I used to work with in the SFPD runs a private security firm." He fished another card out of his wallet and handed it over. "Perhaps the third person here worked for Winston." Olivia noted the address on the card.

"One last thing, deputy. Do you still have any of the letters?"

Andrews shook his head sadly. Olivia flashed him a tired smile.

"Thanks." She walked out of the kitchen and took Peter by the arm.

"What is it?" She waited until they were clear of the house before responding.

"Fenton got in some private security consultant. Perhaps the security guys killed them."

"Maybe, though I think our bank robbers were here. I'll get these samples back to Walter. What do we do now?"

Olivia looked at the card Andrews had given her.

"We're going to San Francisco. I'm tired of being 2 steps behind this thing."

**SAN FRANCISCO, CALIFORNIA**

Winston sat at his desk. He was worried, for a number of reasons. He was worried because Chance was injured and there was nothing he could do about it. He was worried because no Guerrero was in charge of this thing. He was worried because all his undefined fears about this case were gradually coming into view. Ames was sat opposite him in a chair, still cradling the scotch he'd given her when she'd arrived. Her features were brittle and she'd barely said a word since arriving back at the office. That in itself was a cause for concern.

Now he was sat at his desk finishing the job of getting information on Fenton or Graham or whatever his real name was, and calling in every favour he could think of and getting nowhere. He was on the telephone, talking to a contact at Homeland security.

"Phillip, I know this is not an easy request, but I wouldn't ask if it was easy, would I?"

"Put the telephone down"

Winston looked up and saw a small, grey-haired middle-aged man in a very expensive suit stood in his office. He was holding a silenced gun.

"I'll call you back, Phillip." Winston put the phone down slowly. Ames twisted in her seat and the man lashed his gun across the back of her head, knocking her unconscious. Winston started going for his gun, but the grey-haired man was too quick for him, and with the silencer levelled at his chest, he stopped his hand short of the handle of his gun.

"Get up."

Winston stood up slowly.

"Who the hell are you?"

The man threw a pair of handcuffs at him.

"Handcuff her to that heating duct." Winston dragged Ames to the duct slowly. He carefully felt for a pulse and signed inwardly with relief when he found one. Winston's voice was low and full of menace as he spoke.

"If she's badly injured, there isn't a place on this planet you can hide."

Bobcat waved towards the chair on the other side of Winston's desk.

"We'll see, and to answer you're first question, right now I'm your best friend. Sit there."

Winston did as he was told, and Bobcat threw some plastic ties at him.

"Attach those to your legs and then your right hand."

When Winston had completed the task, Bobcat tied his up his left hand and, satisfied that the big man was going nowhere, Bobcat settled down on the edge of Winston's desk.

"Your man, Chance, is it? He is injured or dead, either way, when I turn up, he's going to be in no fit state to protect himself, never mind anyone else. You can save his life. I have no beef with Mr Chance, nor do I have one with you, but Mr Graham, well, lets just say he's not well liked by my client. So, you are going to do your friend a favour. You are going to tell me where they are, and I'm going to let you go and you have my word that, If Mr Chance walks away, this is the last time you'll ever see me."

Winston smiled.

"Selling out clients isn't the best marketing strategy for a private security firm. Particularly when you injure my friends."

"I know this might not be particularly palatable, Mr Winston, but you don't really have a choice." Bobcat opened his case and took out a hammer. Winston looked at it carefully. "I'm going to ask you where the Grahams are, and every time you don't tell me, I'll break a finger. Then I'll move onto your joints, then your limbs. I've done this a few times, and I've never had to get to the joints. I believe you're a brave man, but you will tell me eventually, so why not save yourself the pain?"

Winston feigned indifference.

"You think I don't know pain? Try working with two ex-assassins who are never around when you need them."

Bobcat smiled sadly.

"OK, Mr Winston. I see a demonstration is in order. And by the way, if I don't get what I want from you. There's always the girl…."


	11. Chapter 11

**SAN FRANCISCO, NORTHERN CALIFORNIA**

Olivia and Peter pulled up to the warehouse in the Tenderloin. Peter looked at it through the passenger window.

"Are you sure this is the place?"

Olivia got out of the car and Peter followed.

"This is the address." She walked up to the door and it swung open slowly. Olivia drew her gun. "Stay behind me." They moved through the dark warehouse, illuminated by her flashlight. Eventually, they reached the only lighted room in the building and Olivia moved slowly in. They only saw the legs poking out from behind the desk. She holstered her gun and ran over.

Winston was in a bad state. His left hand was covered in blood as was the shirt around his right elbow, and his trousers around the right knee. Peter ran over to Ames and felt for a pulse.

"I've got another one here – head injury. Only got a faint pulse." Peter reached for his phone and dialled 911 and called for an ambulance.

Winston tried to speak but his voice was quiet and raspy, Olivia had to move her ear to his mouth to hear him.

"Find Chance….Graham….Capstan Cabin…Eldorado Forest."

"Mr Winston, I'm with the FBI – is Mr Graham under your protection?" Winston nodded slowly. Peter walked over.

"Paramedics are on the way."

Olivia ignored him.

"They're in a cabin in Eldorado Forest?" Winston nodded slowly and with difficulty.

"Capstan Cabin, Lake Winter."

"Save your strength. I'll find them." Olivia held his good hand until the Paramedics arrived. Once they turned up and started working on both Ames and Winston, she took Peter to one side.

"Go to the hospital with them and as soon as you can, find out who did this to him."

"Where are you going?"

"To find Graham and this Chance guy. If our zombies are here, perhaps they did this."

"I should be with you."

"Just do it Peter, alright. For once in your life, just do something you're told to do." Olivia didn't even try to hide the tiredness and anger in her voice and Peter physically stepped back, shock drawn over his face. She'd never given him an order like that before.

"OK," he began slowly "I know I'm not your favourite person right now but just so you know, I'm not your damned lackey, so don't treat me like one. If I'm holding you back, then give the word and I'm gone."

He walked over to the Paramedics before Olivia had a chance to answer. She stood up and headed for the car without looking back.

**SALINAS, NORTHERN CALIFORNIA**

Malone and Nichols were sat in the bath together. Around them were littered cheeseburger wrappers and empty soda cans. They were listening to Nichols ipod, heads back at either end of the tub, eyes closed and faces etched in expressions of ecstasy. The water was pink, tinged with the last of the blood escaping from their closing gunshot wounds. Around them, trailing through the warm water, surrounding them and entwined together, were tiny white tendrils. They emerged from the bullet holes, and some appeared through the pores of their skin.

They felt no pain. Nichols should have died. The rifle round had struck her in the left lung and exited through her ribcage. In any normal human, the trauma would have been fatal, but here she was, lying in the bath, looking high. Malone was the same. They didn't know how it worked, they only knew it did. It was the only good thing that had come from their confinement in that hideous lab under a business park in Carolina.

They hadn't got to Graham yet, and Malone knew that they would now have to re-find him, but he had a plan.

He picked up the mobile phone and dialled a number.

"This is Malone. I need to speak to McLennan." He waited. "He'll speak to me." He put the phone on loudspeaker and placed it on the edge of the bath, sliding deeper into the water.

"What do you want?" The voice on the phone sounded tinny and alien.

"I want Fenton, or is it Graham? Whatever he's called this week. I want him." Malone sounded high, even to his own ears. The fungal tendrils in the water were pumping endorphins to his brain, so in fact he was.

"You're wanted in Vermont. I could be arrested for just talking to you."

"You had a sniper at his house. I'm guessing to kill us, or him, or both of us. He failed. I'm guessing that you don't really care how Graham dies, so why not tell us where he is and, if you're lucky, perhaps your guy gets us at the same time. Either way, you get what you want."

There was silence for a long time, then McLennan laughed.

"You've got balls, I'll give you that. Graham is being taken to a hunting lodge in El Dorado National Forest. It's called Capstan Cabin. I'll text you the GPS co-ordinates. Good luck."

"When we've done Graham and your hired gun, you know who we're coming for next, don't you?"

"I know." the voice replied, all mirth gone. "That's why I wished you luck. You'll need it."

The line clicked off and Malone smiled. The great thing about treachery was the fact that anyone could be turned if there was something in it for them. He picked up his cigarettes and lit one, luxuriating in the warmth of the water as the tendrils shifted and weaved their way around their bodies.

**CAPSTAN CABIN, EL DORADO NATIONAL FOREST, CALIFORNIA**

"How are you Dude?"

Guerrero looked at Chance. The big man was unsteady on his feet, though Guerrero wasn't sure if that was due to the drugs or the gunshot wounds. Chance walked slowly over to the kitchen table where Guerrero was sat, carving off slices of apple with a flick-knife and eating them, and eased himself into a chair.

"I was shot, Man, how do you think I feel?"

"Phhuuutt!" Guerrero made obvious his disdain. "I've had worse shaving. Your human shield took the brunt of it."

Chance shook his head sadly.

"Coffee?" Guerrero pushed the pot towards Chance who poured himself a cup, remembering the events in the Graham's house like a video spooling on an endless repeating loop. "She never hesitated, just dropped him like a pro."

"Not everyone has had a road to Damascus moment, Dude. A few years ago you'd have done the same."

Chance took a gulp of his coffee. Guerrero was right. When he was working for the Old Man, he'd have taken the same shot without a second thought. Was he really that different now? Here he was, shot and drugged up, sat at a kitchen table at a safe house in the middle of nowhere, Guerrero making him coffee. He'd lost count of the number of times over the years this scenario had played out. The only difference now was that the other party was under his protection, not floating in a river somewhere.

"Where are the Grahams?"

Guerrero gesticulated upwards with his flick-knife.

"Upstairs, sleeping. I wanted to talk to you about them before I woke them up and got some answers."

"What time is it?"

Guerrero looked at his watch.

"Half past midnight. It's just started to snow too. I'll go into town in the morning and pick up some food, but we need to figure out how we deal with your lying clients. Can't wait around here forever Dude, I've got things to do."

Chance was about to start, when his eyes were drawn to the kitchen window.

"Turn out the light." Guerrero swivelled in his chair and saw the car headlights sparkling in the distance. The smaller man jumped up and hit the lights, plunging them into darkness. Guerrero took out his .45 automatic and passed his 9mm to Chance.

"How mobile are you?"

Chance shrugged.

"I'm not going to cha-cha, but I can move." He eased himself out of the chair as the car headlights got closer. Guerrero took position close to the front door with Chance covering him from the doorframe between the kitchen and the hall, 9mm trained on the door. Guerrero had concealed his gun behind his back. They waited as the car engine noise and the crunch of tyres on snow grew louder, then stopped. They heard a car door slam and the crisp sound of footprints in freshly fallen snow. Guerrero looked back at Chance who nodded slowly to Guerrero, the smaller man moving towards the door. There was a knock – loud and urgent. Guerrero closed his eyes and counted backwards down from five, hoping that the wrap on the door hadn't woken up the Grahams. The last thing they needed was them stumbling downstairs, half asleep into the middle of a gunfight.

Guerrero wrenched the door open. On the stoop, dressed in a huge snow jacket was a blonde-haired woman in a black business suit.

"Christopher Chance?"

Guerrero's hand hovered over the handle of his .44 behind his back, but his face was completely unmarked by tension.

"Never heard of him. I think you got the wrong cabin."

"Laverne Winston sent me, he told me you were here. I'm Olivia Dunham, FBI."

For a second, Guerrero was reaching for his gun. Why would Winston send the FBI without telling them? It was Chance who prevented him from completing the action. He stepped out from the doorframe and walked past Guerrero.

"I'm Christopher Chance. You better come in."

Olivia nodded her thanks to him and walked passed Guerrero without acknowledgement.

"You got coffee?"

Chance directed her to the kitchen and Guerrero shut the door behind Olivia and peeked out of the window by the front door. Satisfied that the FBI agent hadn't been followed, he trailed Olivia and Chance back into the kitchen wondering what was in Chance's mind, and hoping it was more than the remnants of the ketamine in his system.

**CALIFORNIA PACIFIC MEDICAL CENTRE, SAN FRANCISCO**

Peter was sat in the waiting area of the ER at the California Pacific Medical Centre, staring into his cup of dismal coffee that had gone cold 20 minutes earlier. Everything about this case sucked. They had been chasing their tails from day one, always one or two steps behind Malone and his accomplice, and the revelation that the Government were involved and had done some awful things to a group of entirely innocent victims. Now he was waiting on his own, for news of the condition of a man and woman he didn't know, who had been tortured in a particularly ugly way whilst his partner was diving off into God know what.

Partner. That was pretty accurate now. Any pretence that he and Olivia were going to be anything else but work colleagues had been pretty much slain by her barking orders at him in that warehouse in the Tenderloin. Even the thin veil of civility that they had attempted to erect had pretty much gone, and Peter felt that he neither had the energy or the inclination to resurrect it. He stood up from the hard plastic chair which lined one wall of the ER waiting room and walked out into the night air. He took his phone out of his pocket and turned it over in his hand.

He smiled sadly at himself. He wasn't going to ring her just to hear her voice. He wasn't 14, and this wasn't prom night.

"Get your head in the game Peter and do your damned job!" He thought aloud as he looked over the parking lot. He turned to go back into the ER room to try and seek out some better coffee when a doctor walked out into the waiting room.

"Peter Bishop?"

"Yo!" Peter raised a hand and jogged over to the doctor.

"You admitted Mr Winston?" Peter nodded.

"How is he?"

"I can really only discuss it with family…." Peter extracted his FBI identification.

"Doc, I really need to know if Winston can talk to me, he has information on an on-going case. Lives might be at stake, so you wanna help me out?"

The Doctor sighed.

"He's sustained broken bones in all five of the fingers of his left hand, his left wrist and left patella. There's a crack in his left elbow too, but its hairline, so less of a concern. He'll be in hospital for a couple of weeks, then he'll need physiotherapy for a couple of months, but he'll live."

"What about the girl?"

"Miss Ames? She's got a pretty nasty head wound and a severe concussion, but she should be OK. We're keeping her under for the moment, but it's largely precautionary. She'll be in hospital for a few days though.

"Can either of them talk?"

"Yes, Mr Winston can, but only five minutes, he's in a lot of pain and we want to give him a sedative tonight until we can move him to recovery."

The Doctor took Peter through the ER to Winston's room. The walk through whitewashed corridors, the harshness of the light, the smells, the faceless anonymity of the staff walking past him as he hurried along, it all reminded him of walking through St Claire's to pick up Walter that first time. He felt the pang of guilt in his chest that was becoming a familiar visitor every time he found himself in a hospital.

The Doctor showed him into the room.

"Five minutes." He repeated to Peter, who nodded solemnly. Peter walked over to the side of the bed, and pulled up a plastic chair, sitting right beside Winston. The big man shuffled himself over, face creased in pain. Peter laid a hand gently on Winston's shoulder.

Hi Mr Winston, My name is Peter Bishop, I work with the FBI.

"I'd shake your hand, but, well, not until I get the top draw painkillers. How's Ames?"

"Took a hell of a blow to the head, but she'll be OK."

Peter smiled. Winston was a tough one alright. He suspected that had Winston not been tied to a chair, the outcome might well have been less favourable for his assailant.

"What happened?"

"I don't know. Some guy came out of nowhere." Winston's voice was dry and cracking. Peter popped a small piece of ice in Winston's mouth, and Winston nodded his thanks. When he spoke again, his voice was more authoritative. "I think he was a pro – an assassin, or a mechanic…."

"You work in Private Security. Are your current clients Mr and Mrs Ronald Graham?"

Winston eyed Peter carefully.

"I already told your partner they are."

"We have reason to believe their lives are under threat – so we need to know if your attacker was the same guy who we think is after them."

Winston laughed, but it turned into a hacking cough that made him wince. Peter squeezed his shoulder in sympathy.

"Yeah, I had the same thought. Graham showed me some hate mail, but the guy who came after me wasn't an idiot – he's not going to announce his intent by sending a bunch of 'I hate you, I hope you die' letters."

It was Peter's turn to laugh at Winston's turn-of-phrase.

"OK, so if it wasn't my guy, then who the hell was it?"

Winston shrugged with difficulty.

"Like I said, he was a pro – hit-man, maybe. Perhaps a spook – I had my fill of that sort when I was in San Francisco PD."

Peter sat back. He put together the information in his mind. It was staring him in the face the whole time. He would have smacked himself in the head if he'd been alone. There was another party at play here and He and Olivia had alerted them to their involvement. He needed to speak to Olivia.

"Thanks Mr Winston. That's all I need. Do you have a number I can contact you on?"

"Ring the front desk, I'll let them know to put you through no matter what time you ring." Peter got up to leave. Winston grasped his arm with his good, right arm. "Mr Bishop, when you speak to your partner, get her to tell Chance I'm OK – He's got to stick with it, if he breaks cover, whoever got to me will find him."

"I'll tell him, and I'll keep you updated, I promise."

Winston smiled and looked immediately happier and more comfortable.

"Thanks Bishop. If you and your agent hadn't arrived when you did…."

"Forget it." Peter smiled and closed the door behind him. The San Francisco PD had arrived – although Winston had been retired for years, he was still one of their own, and Peter walked out through the ER waiting room and a forest of hands shaking his and patting him on the back. A detective inspector called Callahan was the last to approach Peter as he was stood outside.

"You the guy who busted in on Winston? Saved his sorry ass?"

Peter nodded and Callahan extended his hand.

"He's well liked in these parts, so if you ever end up in O'Leary's on the bay front, you'll be drinking for free." Peter smiled and made a mental note. Callahan whispered conspiratorially. "You got a lead?"

Peter's paranoia kicked in.

"No, but we can't rule out a return visit…." He left the rest unsaid, but Callahan understood.

"We'll watch him. No-one gets through us. You'll let me know when you catch a break?"

Peter nodded and Callahan slapped him on the back before walking back into the ER. Peter walked over to a dark spot in the parking lot and took out his telephone.


	12. Chapter 12

**CAPSTAN CABIN, EL DORADO NATIONAL FOREST, CALIFORNIA**

Olivia was sipping her coffee, closely watched by Chance and Guerrero and feeling like a new family pet being introduced to the house for the first time. The bigger guy was moving carefully and with obvious discomfort, through it all, though, he had an open face, a likeable face, someone who you'd trust implicitly without thinking about it. He reminded her of John, and her heart fell a little in her chest when she realised she hadn't thought about him much recently.

The smaller guy was different. He was like the little guy in those Hong Kong martial arts movies who'd just stand there as chairs and bottles were flying everywhere, calm and serene. You'd watch the movie just to see what he was going to do when he got riled. His face was a mask and he gave nothing away. To her surprise, Olivia realised she was intimidated. Neither had said anything to her and were watching her drink her coffee wordlessly. When her phone rang, she jumped.

"Dunham."

"Olivia, it's Peter. Winston's been busted up pretty good and Ames, the girl, she's got a pretty bad concussion, but they'll live to fight another day. He asked me to ask you to tell someone called Chance that he was OK, he's under 24 hour SFPD protection and not to break cover."

"Did he tell you who did it?"

"No but he described the guy – it's not Malone, Winston seemed to think it was a hired gun. He used the term 'spook'. You tell me, who's company have we been in, in the last 24 hours who'd be comfortable using hired assassins?"

"McLennan."

"That's my thought too. One more thing. This Winston guy, he's got all the guts in the world, but he gave up the location. You're going to have to move again."

"Thanks Peter, I'll call you back in a while." Olivia snapped the phone shut and stared at her coffee.

"So.." Chance began, "Are you going to tell us what you're doing here?"

"You took on a contract to protect a man you thought was called Ronald Graham from a series of undefined death threats, right?"

Chance nodded.

"Mr Graham isn't who he says he is."

"No, I know". Chance stood up and flexed his back. "His real name is Leonard Fenton. He took the name from a man who died in a car accident in 2002. He did work for USAMRIID, we just don't know yet why he changed his name."

Olivia looked surprised.

"You guys really do your homework, don't you?"

"It's kind of our niche" Guerrero added.

"OK," continued Olivia. "What you don't know is that the man and woman sending him the death threats are survivors of a particularly unpleasant set of medical experiments carried out by the CIA, using a front company called New Medical Solutions, based in North Carolina. We think that they're the ones who attacked you in Graham, or rather Fenton's house. We think they're after Fenton because he was involved in carrying out some of those experiments."

Chance rubbed his eyes and reached for the coffee.

"So we've been protecting Wisconsin's own Josef Mengele? That's just great."

"We need to be vetting clients better Dude." Guerrero added, and Chance shot him a look. "Hey, I'm just sayin'…" the small guy added, hands held up in surrender.

"Oh, it gets better." Both men looked back at Olivia. "The CIA are cleaning house – they don't want word of the experiments getting out. We think that they've employed an assassin to take out both Fenton and the two people who have been writing him. And this guy knows we're here."

"How could he know where we are? Only Winston, Guerrero, Ames and the Grahams…." It dawned on Chance and Olivia watched the horror crawl across his face. "Winston…."

"…is fine and so is Ames. The guy did a number on them, but my partner is with them in Hospital in San Francisco, along with half the SFPD. They're safe." She took another drink of coffee. "A lot safer than us, anyway."

Guerrero walked over from the Kitchen door to sit down at the table.

"What did they do to Ames?"

Chance raised an eyebrow at both the subject of the question and the malevolent way Guerrero had asked.

"She was pistol-whipped." Guerrero physically winced, and Chance saw the light behind Guerrero's eyes burn red.

"What about Winston?" Chance added.

"They broke some fingers, his wrist, one or two other minor injuries, but he's going to be fine. My Partner thinks he's some kind of tough-guy."

"He is." Chance interjected quickly, face like thunder. "We've got to go back for them."

"He asked me to tell you not to. The attack was only in part to get information. It was also meant to get you to break cover. Winston and Ames are safe, don't throw away your advantage when there's nothing more you can do for either of them."

Chance looked unconvinced, but he sat down anyway. He knew the answer wouldn't be good enough for Guerrero, and began wondering what was going on between him and Ames. Still, whatever Guerrero was planning, and Chance felt sure he was planning something, he and Olivia would be the last to know. He turned his attention back to Olivia.

"So what's your angle, Agent Dunham?"

"The two people with a grudge against Fenton robbed a bank in Vermont a couple of days ago. Since they're here in California, that constitutes crossing state lines in the commission of a felony, which puts it squarely in FBI territory." Olivia didn't spell out the truth of the case, the complexity of it – she wanted time to assess Chance and Guerrero, but in truth she had no idea how to explain it. As she was thinking her phone rang. She snatched it out of her pocket.

"Olivia, it's Astrid. We caught a break. We circulated Malone's picture to local Airports in California and someone at Eureka airport recognised it. They rented a car at the airport desk and left an address. I'm texting it to your phone. Broyles has said that the Hostage Rescue Team at Quantico is available if you want it."

Olivia thought for a second.

"Not yet. Let's watch and wait for the moment. Where's Walter?"

" We're both still in the lab. He's been doing some experiments growing that fungus. It's disgusting on a whole new level."

"OK, I'll ring back in the morning, but have Walter ready to go when I do, I'm going to need something to stop these two….whatever they are."

Olivia finished the call and turned to Chance.

"We've caught a break. We may have an address on Mr Fenton's letter-writers. I'm going to call my partner and have him stake the place out, but he's going to need back-up…"

Chance turned to Guerrero.

"Fancy a babysitting gig?"

"If the money is there, I do not care, Dude." Guerrero looked at Olivia.

"So who's your partner and where can I find him?"

"I'll ring him and let him know your coming. He's at the California Pacific Medical centre, he's called Peter Bishop."

Guerrero gathered up his coat.

"I'm on my way." He turned to Chance. "Things get ugly Dude, you call me." Chance winked at him.

"Sure thing Mom."

After Guerrero had left, Chance turned to Olivia.

"So what do we do now?"

"We wait for morning, and then we get some straight answers from your client."

"And what do we do until morning?"

Olivia sat back in her chair, coffee cup empty.

"You got any booze?"

"Now this stuff…" Chance began, walking back into the room. "….is Takagi whiskey. It's 25 years old, comes in at about $900 a bottle and it's the best whiskey in the world."

Olivia held out her empty coffee mug.

"Hit me." Chance looked at the coffee cup in ill-disguised contempt.

"You've got to be kidding. Did you not hear the $900 dollars part?" He went through the cupboards until he found two glasses, one with Tom and one with Jerry on the sides. He took them over to the table. Olivia laughed.

"Oh, very classy."

Chance poured each of them a strong one and passed a glass to Olivia.

"Down the hatch."

They knocked the first one back and Chance re-filled their glasses. This one they sipped at.

"So, do you normally knock back vintage whiskey with complete strangers?" Chance asked, throwing some logs on the fire.

"I normally drink with my partner."

"Well that's depressing."

Olivia sighed.

"Yeah, tell me about it." She paused for a second. "Let me ask you a question, what kind of sacrifices do you make for your job?"

Chance thought about it for a while.

"Other than getting beaten up, shot, stabbed, threatened on an almost daily basis? I guess the main sacrifice is that I'm never in one place long enough to settle down. You've met what passes for my family – Winston and Guerrero, and latterly Ames and Ilsa. I'd trust them all with my life, but it's hardly The Waltons, is it?"

"Is it worth it?" Olivia was staring pointedly into her glass.

"Yeah. It is." Chance looked at Olivia carefully. She was clearly miserable, but something about her made him comfortable talking. Normally he was reserved with pretty much everyone, but she seemed wounded, damaged like him. He found himself warming to her. "I've done some things I'm not particularly proud of, and this is a way of making things right, so yeah, I'm comfortable with it."

Olivia looked up at Chance. He was sloshing his whiskey around in his glass and something about him made her feel comfortable. His honesty, perhaps or the fact that he was giving sincere answers to obviously awkward question to someone he'd met only an hour ago.

"Well, I have a sister and a niece who I don't see often enough, and when I joined the FBI I thought I'd be making a difference, but at the moment it just doesn't seem worth it."

"What's his name?"

Olivia looked shocked.

"What?"

Chance laughed.

"In my job, I have to be able to read people. Understand their motivations. You seem pretty 'get-up-and-go', if this was about family you wouldn't have mentioned it, if you hated your job, you'd just quit, so that leaves a man…or a woman."

Olivia smiled at him.

"You ought to think about a career in the FBI."

"No thanks, this one pays better and I doubt I'd pass the vetting procedure. So who is it? Husband, boyfriend, partner…" Olivia looked down at the mention of Peter – it was a clear tell, but for some reason, she felt comfortable giving it. Chance continued. "OK, from that I guess it's your Partner. Are you sleeping with him?"

"No." Olivia Paused. "It's complicated."

"So tell me." Chance got comfortable in his chair. "I'm not going anywhere and this stuff we're drinking doesn't last once it's open. May as well spill the beans."

All of a sudden, Olivia regretted the conversation – how on earth was she going to explain the issues she and Peter were having. She couldn't just throw out there that Peter had slept with her droppleganger from another reality.

"I thought we were close, but he cheated on me. Like I said, it's complicated."

Chance shrugged.

"Doesn't seem that complicated to me, the guy sounds like a grade-a dumbass."

Olivia smiled.

"He's certainly not dumb. He made a mistake, and it wasn't entirely his fault. I know this, I do, but I just can't find it in myself to forgive him."

"Well, if he's cheating on you, he qualifies as dumb in my book and in my line of work, forgiveness is a rare quality. Don't beat yourself up about it. You seem pretty smart – you'll figure it out." Olivia smiled at Chance. He was extremely charming, and he drank great whiskey. She began to feel a bit better.

"So tell me Mr Chance, why did you take Dr Graham's case?"

"I don't often turn them down. I read some of the letters he's been getting, and they were pretty unpleasant." He swallowed the last of his drink and poured another. "So you tell me – these two people after him, what's so special about them?"

"How do you mean?"

"Well, I saw one shot twice in the chest by his accomplice and the second hit by a high-powered rifle round, yet I'm guessing both got up and walked away. Call me old fashioned, but that just didn't happen in my day!"

Olivia laughed, then paused, smiling.

"I work for a part of the FBI called Fringe Division. My team investigates crimes with 'unusual' scientific elements. Malone and his partner certainly qualify given what we know about them."

"Which is…."

Olivia sat back in her chair, thinking carefully about her response.

"I told you they were subjected to some medical experimentation. I can't really explain it because I don't understand it but…" she dug her laptop out of her travel bag and set it up on the kitchen table. "…I do know someone who does. He'll be contacting me shortly, and you'll get a more thorough answer from him."

"I look forward to it." Chance said, grimacing. His stitches had begun to throb and he had a dull ache in his chest. "You should get some rest. I'll take first watch. There's a bed made up upstairs. I'll come and get you at 6am, or if your science man calls."

Olivia smiled at Chance. She was shattered and desperately needed sleep. Her talk with the security consultant hadn't really provided her with any answers, but it had a relief to get it all off her chest. She put her glass on the table.

"Thanks, I'll do that. And thanks for this."

"For what?"

"For sharing your overpriced liquor. I appreciate it."

Chance smiled and watched her leave. Whoever her partner was, he decided, the man must have jello for brains. Then he settled in the chair, gingerly put both feet up on the table and started on his next cup of coffee.


	13. Chapter 13

**SALINAS, NORTHERN CALIFORNIA**

"This is where they told the car rental place they were staying, Dude." Guerrero was on the phone to Chance, parked in Guerrero's car outside Nichols and Malone's rented place, Peter sat in the passenger seat. The sun was just rising and the warm Indian summer had gone, leaving a murky, misty morning that felt about 10 degrees colder than it had the previous day. Peter was staring at the house as Guerrero finished his conversation. "I'm telling you, they're not coming back. No-one's that stupid." He looked round at Peter and rolled his eyes, as he continued. "Fine, we'll wait, but it's a waste of time. Yeah, see ya." He disconnected the call.

"So we're on stake out then?" Peter hadn't looked away from the small chalet-style place as he spoke.

"So it would appear, Dude. Waste of time though. They're not coming back here."

"What makes you so sure?"

Guerrero adjusted his glasses.

"Because it's the stupid thing to do."

"They gave their real address to the car rental company. How bright can they be?" Peter looked at Guerrero. The smaller man shrugged.

"Good point, if this _is_ their address. Of course they may have decided this was a one-way deal. Anyway, we're here for the duration, so you want first or second watch?"

"I could go and get us coffee, there's a 7-11 back there."

"No thanks Dude, too much of that stuff'll kill ya." Guerrero settled back into the driver's seat. "So, what do you do?"

"You know what I do, I work for the FBI."

"I don't know, Dude. No cheap Penney's suit, no bland tie, no 9mm." He looked Peter up and down. "You don't look like a Fed to me."

Peter didn't like being examined like a one of Walter's gerbils. He fixed Guerrero with a steady stare.

"Civillian consultant. What about you? You always been an assassin?"

"Whoa, Dude! Less with the A word! Assassins kill for money. I _do not_ do that. I save people for money, sometimes bad guys end up dead, but that's not what I'm paid for." Guerrero lowered the seat in the car. "Anyway, I'm more interested in you. What do you consult on, Mr Consultant."

"Fringe Science."

"Guerrero looked up at that.

"ESP? Spontaneous Human Combustion? The FBI investigate that stuff?" Peter nodded and Guerrero whistled through his teeth. "My tax dollars at work I guess."

"Wow, you pay tax? I guess I owe Olivia 50 bucks."

"Touché!" laughed Guerrero. "So, why Fenton?"

Peter shrugged.

"He's a bad guy, did some terrible things. Medical experiments. A couple of his more interesting successes are looking for him."

Guerrero's mildly amused demeanour disappeared.

"Your partner told us."

Peter looked confused.

"So then why ask?"

Guerrero's face was steady, and his voice light, but there was a hint of menace underneath.

"I just like to know everyone is who they say they are. Anyway I always knew there was something off about that guy. Talk about your conflicted loyalties."

Peter looked round at Guerrero.

"What do you mean?"

"Chance is a good guy who's done some bad things. He's re-adjusting his karma on a major scale. He's got a thing for always looking out for his clients, but this'll test him."

"What about you."

Guerrero smiled.

"I'm thinking that a little extra weight on the good side of the karmic scales is no bad thing, but I'm mainly in it for the money. At least I was, this one got personal last night."

Peter's smile faded. In spite of his obvious menace, Peter was starting to warm to Guerrero, but he'd been around dangerous people plenty of times, and he recognised in Guerrero all the features of the most dangerous.

"Yeah, we've all been there."

"So, you some kind of scientist?"

That got a straight up laugh from Peter.

"Me? No, I'm a babysitter. My Dad is the scientist and he really is brilliant. Largely insane, often off his head on drugs he makes himself, but definitely brilliant. My job is to try and keep him on the straight and narrow."

Guerrero laughed.

"He works for the FBI and he makes his own stash? I like him already."

Peter was going to answer, when he noticed something move in the bushes around the side of the house they were watching.

"What was that?"

Guerrero saw it too.

"You armed?" Peter shook his head. Guerrero felt around under his seat for a second and pulled out his emergency .38. He handed it over to Peter. "If anyone asks, you found it in a dumpster, OK?"

They stepped out of the van. Guerrero took Peter by the arm and whispered in his ear.

"You watch the street, I'll go round the other side of the house and try to flush whatever's there towards you." Peter nodded and Guerrero set off out of sight round the side of the house. After a couple of minutes, the bushes rustled again and Peter raised the .38, adrenalin pumping through his system. On cue, a large tabby cat came hurtling out of the Bushes.

"Guerrero" Peter shouted. "It's just a cat, Man!" In that instant, defences dropped, he failed to hear the sound of a round chambering in a gun somewhere behind him, or the 'ppphhhut!' noise of the silenced pistol. He felt himself kicked in the rear of his stomach twice, and then collapsed on the tarmac face down.

Guerrero came out of the bushes. It was always cats, and it was always nervy, inexperienced spotters who saw them and freaked out. It was only as he emerged from the side of the building that he saw the small, grey-haired man stood over Peter, silenced Automatic in hand, aimed at Peter's head. He raised his own gun and fired off two rounds, both of which struck the older man squarely in the ribcage, throwing him against the side of the van and dropping him in a heap on the floor, his gun skittling away across the tarmac.

Guerrero ran across the street to Peter, who's side was now red with blood. Peter's complexion was draining of colour and the first tiny beads of sweat were forming on his forehead. Guerrero had seen this before, he was going into shock. He took out his phone and called 911. What he didn't see as he was doing so was the grey-haired man slowly get to his feet behind him and just as he was finishing the call. The assailant leapt on him from behind, closing Guerrero's elbows against his own body and grabbing him in a choke hold.

"It's called Kevlar…" the man whispered in Guerrero's ear and he continued to squeeze. Guerrero tried to move an arm from his ribcage but Bobcat was deceptively strong and Guerrero couldn't move. His vision at its periphery started to darken and in a last, desperate attempt to free himself, Guerrero ran his heel hard into the knee of Bobcat. The Assassin didn't relinquish his grip entirely, but Guerrero smiled as he heard the gasp of pain from his assailant and his grip eased slightly.

Fuelled by seeing Peter lying on the floor, blood pool growing, Guerrero shifted his weight onto his toes and drove the back of his head into Bobcat's nose, breaking it. Bobcat's grip was broken, and Guerrero grasped the arm round his throat and threw Bobcat over his hip, twisting Bobcats wrist into an armlock. As he was forced to the ground, Bobcat executed a foot sweep, knocking Guerrero off his feet, breaking the wrist lock. Both men leapt to their feet, and circled each other slowly.

"How's the nose, Dude?" Guerrero growled, and Bobcat spat blood.

"I've had worse." He pulled his spare gun from a holster in the small of his back and smiled, exposing teeth that were bloody. Guerrero rolled his eyes. This wasn't the way he'd seen it all ending, and was surprised that his overwhelming emotion was annoyance. "So…." Bobcat started, "…..You want to see it coming, or do you want to turn round?"

Before Guerrero could think up a really foul-mouthed response, the quiet of the morning street was shattered by two gunshots. Guerrero wheeled round and saw Peter had dragged himself to where his gun had fallen and had raised the pistol up and with his failing strength had done the only thing he was able to do. The first round missed, but the second went through Bobcat's right knee and the assassin collapsed to the floor, gun bouncing from his reach. Guerrero walked round the back of the man and took his head in his hands, looking Peter squarely in the eye. Peter nodded almost imperceptibly, and Guerrero leaned over so his mouth was level with Bobcat's ear.

"Remember the girl you pistol-whipped last night? This is why you should have walked away."

Moving his head away, he snapped Bobcat's neck in a single fluid movement.

He let the body fall to the tarmac and searched the assassin for a cell phone, pocketed it and ran over to Peter and waited for the Paramedic to arrive.

"Thanks Dude, I owe you." he said quickly and quietly. "Just hold on for me, OK?"

**PACIFIC MEDICAL CENTRE, SAN FRANCISCO**

"Mr Guerrero?"

Guerrero stood up. He was waiting in the same ER waiting room as Peter had been sat in earlier. It would have brought an ironic smile to Guerrero's face had circumstances been different.

"How is he?"

"Mr Bishop was shot twice. The first round passed through his thorax without catching anything major, however the second round struck Mr Bishop in 7th anterior rib and broke up. We'll need to remove the pieces of bullet, but an initial examination suggests that he's suffered severe damage to his liver and his left lung has collapsed. We've got him on a respirator, but we won't know the real damage until we can do a CAT scan."

Guerrero pushed his glasses onto his forehead and rubbed the bridge of his nose.

"So, is he gonna make it?"

The doctor shrugged his shoulders.

"We're doing everything we can but it'll be touch and go. He's in a bad way. If he has family other than you, then you should probably get them here."

Guerrero ignored the reference to his lie and thanked the doctor. What the hell was he going to say to the kid's partner?

He went off to find Ames' room, shaken by how quickly this gig had come apart at the seams.


	14. Chapter 14

**CAPSTAN CABIN, EL DORADO FOREST, CALIFORNIA**

Chance shook Olivia awake gently. She came to quickly, grabbing for her gun.

"What is it? Is Malone here?"

Chance shook his head sadly.

"It's your partner. He's been shot." Olivia's face dissolved into shock.

"What, Peter? Is he alright?"

Chance looked at the young FBI agent, eyes full of pain and compassion.

"You need to go, now. Be with him." Olivia leapt out of bed.

"What about Malone?"

Chance waved away her concerns.

"Don't worry about it. I'm going to get some answers from my clients. I'll be OK."

Olivia gathered up her coat and gun and stopped mid-maelstrom.

"Oh God…how am I going to tell Walter? He'll never forgive me."

Chance knew that now wasn't the time to ask.

"Just go, and the other stuff will sort itself out. Believe me, I know."

Olivia looked on Chance, with his humour, his taste in whiskey and his obvious decency and thought of what might have been, had the night gone differently. Then instantly visions of Peter in pain polluted her thoughts and made her feel guilty about what never even happened.

"Thanks" she managed weakly as she picked up her coat and with that, Olivia was gone.

Satisfied that Olivia was gone, Chance walked upstairs to the room where Graham and his wife were sitting, eating breakfast. He placed his cup of coffee on the table.

"You know, Mr Chance, you make a hell of an omelette." Graham said between mouthfuls. Chance smiled.

"Mr Graham, I've been patient with you, I've ignored the fact that you've been lying to me from the moment we met, I even ignored the information one of my associates provided me with that demonstrates that you have a, shall we say, manufactured life." Graham stopped chewing and both he and his wife began to look nervously at each other.

Graham began to speak, but Chance raised a hand, cutting him off before he began.

"Now two good people are in the hospital because of you. One will live, one may not. I need to know everything about you, Mr Fenton, including how it is you know Patrick Malone, and I need to know now and if you don't tell me, when Malone gets here, I'll show him up here myself."

Graham considered his options and seeing that Chance was his only remaining hope, he shrugged.

"In 1982 I was working for USAMRIID – the Army Infectious Diseases institute - in Gabon, central Africa. I was there because the eastern border of Gabon was suffering an outbreak of a new kind of Haemorrhagic Fever. I was out there with a CIA doctor called McLennan and the reason that the CIA were interested was because Ebola Lekomi was the Mount Everest of infectious diseases. It was an airborne, highly infectious haemorrhagic fever with an incubation period of 72 hours. I'll give you the edited highlights – it was the one that, if it gets into the western world, with its air travel and subways and baseball games, would be the grim reaper in aerosol form. In the end, McLennan made a phone call and 76 square miles of virgin rain forest and the three villages with Ebola Lekomi cases were napalmed by Intruders of the 317th Tactical air wing, USS Independence. In the two months we were in Gabon, we saw one man recover from Ebola Lekomi, and he had no right doing so."

"What do you mean?"

"He was called Joseph Mbengu and he had a disease called Histoplasmosis, a fungal lung infection fairly common in southern Africa. For some reason, I still don't know why, the fungal mycelium, in an attempt to fight the Ebola virus, spread through his system. He lived when everyone else died. Both McLennan and I were…..changed by the experience."

"So? This is all very interesting…" Chance began, "But where does it go?"

"McLennan became obsessed with fungal symbiosis. He needed to know why Mbengu lived through a disease that was, up until that point, 100% fatal." Fenton looked at the ground. "So did I." He paused for a second, and his wife placed a hand of his arm. "A few years later, McLennan calls me and asks whether I'd be interested in coming over to work on a CIA project with him, aimed at finding out whether what Joseph Mbengu had was the first stage in an evolutionary treatment for a range of diseases…or something more."

"Come on, Fenton, I'm losing patience here."

"McLennan had got the OK to set up his project – Project Mandrill – in Carolina, and he called me in. We infected people with Histoplasmosis, then gave them Lassa, or Smallpox or West Nile virus. It didn't work. We spent three years and tens of millions of dollars on a bust. Then McLennan starts reading about genetic manipulation, and he starts looking at the way that orchids lived in a symbiotic relationship with microrhizal fungus. A couple of years of experimentation and a change in Project name – by this time it was project Orchid - we began to test our symbiont fungus on critically injured people – car wreck victims, gunshot victims, industrial accidents…we literally gave them their lives back. Patrick Malone was one of those people."

Chance rolled his eyes.

"No offence, Dr Fenton, but I've saved more than a few lives, and I don't ever recall getting death threats instead of being paid, so you'll forgive me if I don't take that at face value.".

Fenton sighed.

"When we started to get results, the CIA, or some part of it at least, started to take a real interest. It wasn't good enough to save lives, they wanted to know how much punishment symbionts could take. So we tested them…"

"How?" Chance said slowly.

"Does it matter – I'm not proud of it, if that's what you're getting at."

"It matters to number 1 and number 9. Who are they?"

"Patrick Malone and Deborah Nichols"

"..And what did you do to them?"

After Fenton told him, Chance suppressed the urge to go across the table and take Fenton by the throat. Instead, he mustered every ounce of self-control he could generate, got up, left the room and phoned Olivia.

**CALIFORNIA PACIFIC MEDICAL CENTRE, SAN FRANCISCO**

Guerrero sat next to Ames bed. She was asleep and he sat in a plastic chair next to the bed, feeling awkward and out-of-place. Ames was sleeping, with a bandage wrapped tightly round her head. She looked peaceful. Guerrero felt angry that he hadn't made the little assassin suffer longer. In the old days, Guerrero would have dragged the man to the nearest empty warehouse and drilled holes in him until he'd got bored. Instead he'd delivered a quick and pain-free coup-de-gras. In part it was because Bishop was lying on the tarmac bleeding out, but only in part. There was something else at play here – he didn't want her to look at him like he was a monster. The revelation was something he found genuinely disturbing.

"You look like I feel."

Guerrero jerked his head up. Ames was upright in bed, looking at him. He smiled at her.

"How are you feeling?"

"Like someone brained me. How's Winston?"

"He'll live. The guy did a number on him."

Ames face wrinkled in disgust.

I know, I saw some of it I think, it's all pretty hazy." She looked at Guerrero and he thought he detected fear behind her eyes. "He'll be coming back, won't he?"

Guerrero leaned into her.

"No, he won't." He let the truth hang in the air without an explanation. Ames searched his eyes and found the answer. Guerrero waited for the look to come, the look that gave away Ames fear of him and of what he was capable of. It never came. Instead she lifted her hand and placed it over Guerrero's and squeezed.

"Thank you."

Guerrero didn't know what to say, so he left his hand there as she squeezed it and settled back in his seat and said the only thing he could think to say.

"You're welcome."

Olivia was sat in the ER waiting room with Guerrero, who'd finally left Ames so she could catch up on her sleep, and half a dozen SFPD officers who remembered Peter from his actions in saving Winston and who had taken Peter's injury very personally. Guerrero had not giving any information on the fate of Peter's attacker, though Olivia suspected that he had taken care of it in his own way and she felt no compulsion to quiz or question the brooding man about it, given that he had probably saved Peter's life. They were still waiting for an update when Walter, Astrid and Broyles burst in through the door. Broyles walked over to Olivia and sat next to her. Astrid flashed Olivia a sympathetic look, but Walter ignored her completely and stormed up to the ER reception desk.

"My Son, Peter Bishop….How is he?"

The Nurse behind the desk stood up.

"I don't know sir, but if you follow me, I'll get you an update from the ER Surgeon."

Astrid took his hand, and they both walked through the double doors into the ER proper. Olivia got up to speak to Walter, but he shot her a glance of pure, unadulterated malevolence as he walked past, and he hissed at her as he went

"Stay away from me…you were supposed to protect him!"

Olivia slumped back in her seat and Broyles patted her arm sympathetically.

"Step outside for a second with me."

When they were outside, Olivia rubbed her eyes and Broyles waited for the inevitable.

"I should have gone with him, instead I let him go with Guerrero. I chose to stay with Chance, not because it was the right thing to do, but because it was easy."

"Why?"

"Because I didn't want to spend any more time with Peter." She looked at the ground. "We've been having some problems lately…"

Broyles laughed mirthlessly.

"I'm your boss, Olivia, I know you two were having problems, but this…this isn't your fault and that Guerrero guy, whatever his faults, as I understand it, he saved Peter's life, so I wouldn't be too hard on him."

"How is this not my fault?"

"You had to keep your eyes on Fenton, but someone had to check out Malone and Nichol's address, maybe you should have got the Sacramento field office involved, but we all make calls we can second-guess. You didn't send Peter to that house because you wanted rid of him, you did it because it was the right thing to do."

"Walter won't think so…"

"Perhaps not, but that's a different conversation." Broyles lead her to a bench and they sat down.

"Where is Fenton now?"

"He's in a cabin in the Eldorado National Forest. He's being watched by a private bodyguard….."

"I think we probably need to get Field Agents up there."

Olivia gave a shrug.

"You were right, by the way. Chance, the Bodyguard with Graham, got him to talk. He did work for the CIA, and they are trying to clean house. Walter needs to talk to him, most of what Chance told me went way over my head. I'll go back up there, see if we can get more information from him – if he was tied to the CIA, I'd rather keep this between as few people as possible, we don't know how far this thing goes. "

"It's your call Olivia, but at least let me get the Hostage Rescue Team on stand-by and close by. We don't need to give them details yet…"

Olivia nodded and Broyles took a sip of his coffee. As he did so Astrid ran out of the ER over to them. Both Olivia and Broyles stood up.

"Peter's about to go into surgery." Astrid was downcast. "Walter's with him, he's conscious. He wants to see you, Olivia." Astrid's voice hitched as her chest lurched. "The surgeon says if you've got anything to say to him….you should do it now."

Olivia couldn't help herself. She started to cry.

"Walter…" Peter's voice had a musical lilt that suggested he was on some impressive painkillers. "…..it's fine, you heard what the Doctor said – a quick bout of surgery and I'll be right as rain."

"I know Son." Walter sniffled, eyes red, his tone disbelieving. "It's a shock, that's all. You must be more careful."

"Short of growing eyes in the back of my head, I'm not sure what else I can do to be careful. I don't suppose you can sort out that 'eyes in the back of my head thing'…"

Walter smiled for the first time since arriving at the Hospital, it was weak and Peter felt an intense wave of sorrow wash over him even through the painkillers as he studied Walter's face.

"You know Belly and I once grew a fully-functional eye in an inert solution. It had to be in saline as we didn't grow it any eyelids…"

The door opened and Olivia stuck her head round. Walter trailed off and Peter saw the look of malevolence return to his face. He put a hand over Walter's.

"Can you give us a couple of minutes Walter?" Walter reluctantly stood up. He looked back at Peter, who smiled at him. "You can come back in a few minutes – and see if you can find a thin guy with round glasses and odd facial hair, his name is Guerrero, and he saved my life."

"I'll find him. Son, I…..I"

Peter smiled at his Father.

"Dad, I promise I'll be OK."

Walter left Peter's side reluctantly and on the verge of tears, fixing Olivia with a ferocious glare as he shoved passed her. He paused just out of Peter's line of sight and leaned into Olivia, hissing into her ear.

"You of all people should know how far I'll go to protect Peter, and what I'm capable of. It he doesn't come through this…."

He then stormed past leaving the threat unfinished, looking for Guerrero. Olivia walked into Peter's room looking shaken and feeling a complex tide of different emotions, none of them pleasant.

"He blames you…" Peter began. He was too tired, and it was too difficult holding back the morphine curtain for him to sugar-coat the words. "…and you know how long he can hold a grudge."

"Maybe he's right." Olivia's voice hitched as she saw Peter, connected to bleeping and humming machines. She slumped down in the chair next to Peter's bed.

"He's not. Even if things had been all wine and roses between us, we both know I'd still have gone with Guerrero and I'd probably have been shot, so what happened to me isn't your fault, it's mine for doing this job. Maybe it's the right time to stop."

Olivia looked at Peter, white and broken, voice shallow and barely above a whisper. How on earth had they got to this place.

"What are you saying Peter?"

"I'm tired Olivia. I love the job, I love feeling like I'm starting to make a difference. I'm just tired of this, I'm tired of us. I'm just not really able to pretend anymore. I'm sorry."

Olivia didn't even try to hide the tears that had formed at the corners of her eyes and were running down the side of her face.

"Peter, I don't know what to say to you. You kept me going over there, you were the only thing keeping me sane…..I want it to be better, I do, but I can't help it, all I see when I close my eyes is you and her. I…..I…."

Peter, with great effort raised his hand and placed it over hers.

"I know, Olivia." He licked his lips and wet his mouth, the effort of speaking burning off his pain medication and helping the agony flood in. "I've not got long, Olivia – I made the doctor give me an adrenalin shot because I told him I had vital information to give you. It was only a half-lie."

"Peter!" Olivia looked mortified that he'd put himself through that.

"Liv, please!" Peter's voice was barely above a whisper. "There's one thing I need you to know, in case….well, in case I don't get through this…."

"Peter No!" Olivia's voice was strident and brittle. "Don't you dare talk like that. Don't you dare!"

"Olivia, let me finish. I've got an even chance, the doctors say. I used to gamble and even I wouldn't play those odds." Olivia's silent tears became open, raw sobs. Peter did his best to ignore the pain, no longer just physical, and finish what he had to say. "Olivia….no matter how much you hate me for what I did to you, it's a fraction of how much I hate myself for not seeing it, for how much I hurt you. I know sorry isn't enough, Olivia. I just don't know what else I can do, except go."

"Peter…..what do you mean, go?" Olivia's voice was low and full of pain. "Peter?"

He winced and struggled to get the final words out.

"Take Walter to talk to Fenton. I don't want him here whilst…..keep him occupied. Get to the bottom of this."

"I doubt Walter would do anything I ask him at the moment." Olivia said between sobs, rubbing her hand across her nose.

Peter smiled serenely, like a monstrous weight had lifted from him and with it some of the pain in his face appeared to evaporate.

"I think you might be surprised." He said, voice so quiet that he was barely audible. He closed his eyes, face serene and as he did so every bell, alarm and klaxon in the room started howling. Olivia jumped up in surprise and terror, only to be bustled out of the way by two ER nurses.

"Blood pressure is 80 over 50 and falling, ECG is erratic." One of the nurses fixed Olivia with a sympathetic look. "We've got to get him into surgery right now or he's going to die. You need to go."

"But he'll be OK, right?" Olivia pleaded.

They ignored her and began to move Peter's bed in the direction of the operating theatre in double-quick time, leaving Olivia alone, and in shock, surrounded by a phalanx of wailing machines there to record the condition of a patient who was already gone.


	15. Chapter 15

**CAPSTAN CABIN, EL DORADO FOREST, CALIFORNIA**

The journey back from the Hospital to the Cabin where Chance and Fenton and his wife were waiting, was three hours of hell. For one, only Astrid's pleading, and Olivia guessed whatever Peter had said to him, had persuaded Walter to leave Peter's side. After he had got into the car, he refused to talk to either Olivia or Astrid. Olivia herself had no idea whether Walter would even talk to Fenton when they got to their destination. Right now she didn't really care herself. Behind them, Guerrero followed in his van, and Olivia wasn't sure how to react to the little man. She was fairly sure he'd killed the man who shot Peter and about as sure that he was good enough to make sure he'd never be arrested for it. That wasn't what bothered her, but her inability to read Guerrero was disconcerting. Walter however had insisted he came, the fact that Guerrero had saved Peter's life, at least to this point meant that he was now Walter's best friend, something which Guerrero seemed to accept with reasonably good heart. Broyles was still in San Francisco, trying to chase down McLennan, and although he had promised help, Olivia had wanted to keep the Fenton's location between the few of them – if the CIA were involved, then she didn't want them finding out through sources in the bureau – they now had the element of surprise if McLennan's assassin was dead, and that's how she wanted to keep it. Broyles had agreed. It was with some relief on Olivia's part, however, when they finally pulled up to the cabin in the late evening gloom, the first swirling flakes of snow descending as they did so.

Chance greeted them as they arrived.

"Dude," Guerrero started, "This is Doctor Walter Bishop, and this is Astrid Farnsworth FBI." Chance shook each of their hands. He lingered with Walter.

"Dr Bishop, I was sorry to hear about your Son. Guerrero told me he's a good guy." Walter smiled, but it was a weak, heartbreaking affair. Chance felt it sensible to move on quickly. "Olivia tells me you might understand what Fenton's saying because frankly I don't have a clue."

Walter seemed disinterested in small-talk with Chance, but humoured him anyway because of his kind words.

"We'll see. Is he upstairs?" Chance nodded and Walter smiled without any real pretence at sincerity. "Then up I go. Could you bring up some pancakes please, Astrid will show you how to make them." Chance looked at Astrid in confusion. She smiled sadly and took him by the arm.

"We'll bring them up in a minute Walter!"

Showing no response, Walter turned to Olivia.

"The second the Hospital calls, you find me." It was not a request.

"Of course, Walter."

"The second!" he re-iterated in a venomous hiss, before turning on his heels and marching up the stairs. Chance, Olivia and Astrid headed into the kitchen, Chance watching Walter disappear up the stairs.

"Poor guy."

Astrid scowled at the thought of what Walter was doing whilst his son was….well Astrid felt no desire to finish that thought.

"He's cunning and maddening and unpredictable. And genuinely brilliant and tonight…" she shot a look at Olivia "…..very, very brave."

"Dude is out of his Tree," began Guerrero, "…but he's certainly one of the good guys, and Astrid is right, the guy is off the top of the genius charts." He sat down and began chomping on an apple. "I like him. He sure as hell did a great job with that kid of his."

"He'll be able to figure this out." Olivia said, slumping down on the kitchen table chair. "If not, we better have a good plan B, because guns won't do the job on Nichols and Malone if past experience is anything to go by."

They all settled into a gloomy quiet, with only the crackling of Walter's pancakes and the moan of the increasingly strong north-easterly wind down the flue interrupting the silence.

"Good Evening, Dr Fenton. My name is Dr Walter Bishop." Walter didn't hold out his hand, but sat on one side of the desk in the Fenton's bedroom. Leonard Fenton was sat on the bed, and Mrs Fenton sat on a chair staring out of the window into the snowy night.

"Walter Bishop?" Fenton sounded incredulous.

"That's right."

Fenton stood up and took the chair on the opposite side of the desk from Walter.

"I saw a lecture you gave, back in 1981, when you were with the US Army Special Projects Division. I was with USAMRIID. It was on the use of nanites in combating bacteriological warfare. It was quite brilliant."

Walter smiled politely.

"I don't remember, but then much of the early 1980's are a bit of a blur I'm afraid." He placed his notepad and his pencil on the desk in front of him and paused for a second, composing himself.

"I've seen the results of your work Dr Fenton. It's really quite ingenious. You've managed to synthesise a fungal symbiont that can adopt the function of a range of human tissue and organs. I've even managed to identify one of the fungi you used as a baseline – _Argyentoides Mascula_. I have a lady's slipper in my own lab, so I was able to test it against a pure strain. My colleagues have filled me in on your discussion with Mr Chance, so I understand your motivations, however you must now understand the danger you and your experiments have put us all in."

Fenton protested loudly.

"We did it to save lives, think of the medical implications that this discovery might have! We gave these people back their lives!"

Walter cut him off.

"Please! You saved them so you could torture them! You didn't give a damn about them, they were lab rats to you, and any benefits for mankind were the incidental result of the satisfaction of your intellectual curiosity. I know you better than you think…." He left out the part about why he knew so much about Fenton's motivations and how they had mirrored his own in times long passed. "Malone. Tell me about him."

"He was clinically dead when he arrived at New Medical Solutions. Massive gunshot injuries. The CIA had pulled strings to get him to us quickly. We injected the _Mycelium_ and placed him in cryogenic suspension. He was up and about within 2 weeks."

"What happened next?"

"We repeated the experiments with 30 other subjects. About half were successful and we found that the closer to death they were, the more effective the treatment was. The _mycelium_ needs around 48 hours to 'set root' so to speak, and it's attacked and destroyed by a healthy immune system. The immune system shuts down when the major organs fail, so we needed patients at the stage of major organ failure. We then held them in a cryogenic state until the _mycelium_ was well established and by that point the immune system was overwhelmed and the _mycelium_ took on its function. Recovery from that point was extremely rapid."

"But the problem was that you didn't know exactly where the trigger point was or how extensive regeneration could be, so you started experimenting on your subjects."

"That's right. We started with simple injuries and got more 'creative'. We got a lot of information but although we narrowed down the point at which the _mycelium_ could overwhelm the immune system, we never pinpointed it exactly."

Walter looked across at Mrs Fenton, who was still staring into the snowy night.

"What was your role?"

She didn't take her eyes away from the window.

"I did the worst thing of all." Her voice was steady. "I told their families they were dead."

"My wife ran the administrative elements of the project." Fenton added unnecessarily.

Walter sat back in his chair and Astrid knocked on the door and brought in his pancakes.

"Ahhhh, these smell delicious." He ate as he continued, teasing out from Fenton the one thing that puzzled him about the whole affair.

"What I don't understand is why you stopped. Whilst your methods may have been morally reprehensible, what you've created is undoubtedly extraordinary and could save hundreds of thousands of lives."

Fenton laughed bitterly.

"We genetically modified the _Argyentoides_ fungus to grow in a human host, but we couldn't make it grow fast enough to save dying subjects – the time it typically took to establish itself in the circulatory system was too slow for the critically injured. So we spliced its DNA with that of a rapidly multiplying fungus called _Cordyceps._."

Walter looked at Fenton in undisguised horror.

"You did what?"

"It was perfectly safe! We had bred out the dangerous elements of Cordyceps in lab conditions. It should have been benign. It was designed to be beneficial!"

Walter stood up, now he knew what the missing piece was, the fragment of spliced-in DNA that he didn't recognise, he had real work to do.

"You are an imbecile." Walter directed at Fenton, with undisguised fury. "In your hurry to perfect a technology so complex it was beyond your seemingly infantile understanding, you forgot the first rule of genetics –eventually nature restores an equilibrium. The subjects went insane, didn't they?"

"All except three. Subject 1, subject 9 and subject 16. One of the other subjects, 12 I think, broke out of isolation and….spored. We couldn't let that happen again, not when we realised the implications, so the CIA took precautionary procedures. They burned the labs and every subject in them. Or so they thought. In the melee, 1, 9 and 16 escaped."

"We know 1 is Malone, but who are 9 and 16?"

"9 is a woman called Deborah Nichols, 16 is a woman called Alice Devonshire. Before were shut down in 2006, we were given new identities just in case and then paid off once the project was shut down. I've been a vet ever since, I assume they are still looking for the escapees, because I'm getting death threats from two of them." Fenton paused and when he continued his voice was brittle, pleading. "We thought we were saving humanity from the scourge of disease, surely you must understand that our motives were good…."

Walter turned his back on Fenton and his wife.

"Dr Fenton, if you're looking for sympathy or absolution, you've come to the wrong man. There's always a price to pay for our actions, I know that better than most. The consequences of your actions resonate far beyond your laboratory and no explanation of your motives excuses your actions. My son…" Walter couldn't finish the sentence, so he sniffed back the tears he was on the verge of freeing and politely added "Good night" to them and closed the door on the way out, leaving Fenton looking on in despair and his wife statuesque and seemingly unmoved by the window.

Walter stalked down the stairs and planted himself in the kitchen, in the chair next to Guerrero.

"What did you find out Walter?" Olivia asked, expecting a mouthful of invective from the Scientist. To her surprise, she didn't get it.

"Fenton spliced his benign orchid fungus with a rapidly spreading parasitic fungus called _Cordyceps_. I told you back at the lab that the original fungus had been altered at the genetic level by something I didn't recognise – that was it."

"OK, I'll Bite…" began Chance. "What does the _Cordyceps_ fungus do?"

"It affects insects mainly often ants and grasshoppers. It infects an ant's brain, typically forcing it to move into more humid, warmer situations and when environmental conditions are right, it kills the ant, erupts from its body and emits spores which then infect any ant in the vicinity."

"Mind control by fungus? This is a joke, right?" Guerrero was looking at Walter in disbelief.

"Not really mind control in the hypnotism sense" Walter explained. "It doesn't make you cluck like a chicken, or make you sign over the deed to your house. It wants to reproduce, so it forces you to find the optimum conditions for it to spore, then you die, and it spores."

"I don't get it though." Olivia was running the timeline through in her head. "We know that Fenton has been using the identity of Graham since 2002 and living in Pacific Grove since 2006 – how long does it take for this fungus to 'spore?"

"I don't know." Walter admitted. "In tests on infected insects, it was usually fatal within a week." He puzzled on the issue for a while. "Perhaps in splicing the _Cordyceps_ dna with that of a much slower, longer-lived species, Fenton arrested the speed of the _cordyceps _growth."

"I was in Zambia once, on a previous job." Chance began. "While I was out there, I got infected by a Guinea Worm."

"A what?" Astrid sounded like she didn't really want to know the answer.

"Dracunculiasis." Walter added with sudden interest. "A parasitic worm that infects the subcutaneous tissues. Large ones can be several metres long. Do continue, Mr Chance."

"Well, I went to a local clinic with this thing moving around under the skin of my chest and they sat me in this hot bath and it stuck its head out and squirted out this milky fluid."

"Those were its eggs." Walter added with none of his usual glee at the thought of the weird and revolting, as Astrid, Olivia and Guerrero pulled disgusted faces.

"I didn't know that." Chance stated. "And I wish I still didn't. Anyway, once it stuck its head out, they wound it round a stick. Every day I had to take two hot baths and every time I did, more of this thing poked itself out, and more of the milky stuff came out and I could wind more of it round my stick. Eventually the whole thing popped out."

"Fascinating, Dude." Guerrero interjected. "But what's your point, other than grossing us out?"

"The point I believe Mr Chance is making, is that perhaps our two experimentees have found a way of controlling the sporing process without it killing them." Walter added. He turned to Chance. "Very good Mr Chance. Even if this were the case, however, at some point the fungus _will_ kill them and then spore uncontrollably, because that is the climax of its life cycle. When it does, the spores will infect anyone who breathes them in. Fungal spores are tiny and light enough to travel hundreds of miles. Fenton thought he was creating an organ substitute, Perhaps the CIA saw it as a mechanism for creating soldiers who could shrug off normally fatal wounds. What they actually did was create the perfect biological weapon."

He paused as the enormity of the situation sank into their brains.

"So what do we do?" Olivia asked.

"I need to run a simulation." Walter walked over to Astrid. "Do you have your laptop, my dear?" Astrid nodded and took it from her bag. Walter took it from her. "I need some peace and quiet to do this – if you need me, I'll be on the John." With that announcement he departed the room.

"No offence, Olivia, but this all sounds a bit too whacky to me." Chance started, the disbelief clear in his voice.

"I know, but I've been around Walter Bishop long enough to realise that when he's talking about biological weapons, you better sit up and take notice."

"OK, but does this actually change anything? Regardless of what they're afflicted with, Malone and Nichols are still after Fenton – we've got to assume they'll find him here eventually. We still should think about our options for when that happens." Chance looked around the room. "Any ideas?"

"I'll make a suggestion Dude," Guerrero began. "How about we throw the Nazi bastard up there to the wolves? You can't tell me you feel good about keeping this son-of-a-bitch upright and breathing?"

"No." Chance's voice was firm. "I'll happily pass him to the FBI after this is finished, but I'm not in the business of handing clients over to their tormentors, however badly they've been treated." He looked at Olivia. "What about you?"

"We could have the FBI pick Malone and Nichols up, but what if it's in a shopping mall and one of them blows their own head off, and spreads spores everywhere?" Olivia shook her head. "Whatever we do, it has to be here, and it has to be us and us alone – that way we at least limit the risk."

"OK." Chance groaned. "We agree. This is where we make our stand. What do we do? Kill them?"

"If you do, you'd better be careful how you do it." Walter had returned. "According to my calculations, based on a conservative estimate of every sporing process affecting between 40 and 50 new individuals and occurring 7 days after first contact, I theorise that every human being on the planet would be infected three thousand six hundred and eighteen hours after the first sporing incident. If the planet were hit by an asteroid the size of France, it would probably take longer to make the human race extinct."

"Let me get this straight, Walter…" Astrid started slowly, allowing her mind to process the new information as she went along. "You're saying that if Malone or Nichols were to release their spores, the whole of the human race would be dead in four months?"

"It's rather sobering, isn't it?" Walter murmured. "I always thought that we'd be ended by some idiot fooling around with something he didn't understand. God indeed has a well developed sense of Irony."

"Walter…" It was Olivia, mind racing. "This fungus – is their any way we can kill it?"

"Of course, we can apply a fungicide. I have some in my basement at home." He looked at Guerrero. "We have an apple tree at home, you see, and it gets bracket fungus…."

"Walter!" Olivia drew Walter's attention back to the matter at hand. "If we inject fungicide into Malone and Nichols, what will happen?"

"I imagine the fungal symbiont will die. Unfortunately, so will Malone and Nichols – the symbiont in Nichols at least is now functioning as her heart."

They mulled darkly on the options. None of them wanted to admit to themselves that they were starting to see both Malone and Nichols as the real victims in this whole, bizarre scenario, but that's what they were and any scheme they put together seemed to end in their deaths and that appeared to be grossly unfair. It was Guerrero that broke the silence.

"I'll do it. I know what you're all thinking, and I don't really like it any more than you do, but if someone's going to dirty their hands, I'll do it. Mine are dirty enough already."

Olivia looked at him with a mixture of horror and gratitude.

"There might be another way." Astrid stood by the window. "Walter, Massive Dynamic has isolation labs in their medical research institute don't they?"

"I believe so, yes."

"Then if we can convince Malone and Nichols to go there, then they can be watched, perhaps treated and if they do spore, it can be in a closed environment with no risk to the outside world."

Walter regarded Astrid with warmth.

"My Dear, you really are priceless. What would I do without you?" Walter had genuine affection in his eyes as he looked on Astrid and the Junior FBI agent, knowing the torment he was going through, not knowing if Peter was alive or dead, felt an overwhelming wave of sympathy wash over her. She reached out and took his hand, squeezing it gently. Olivia watched the interaction feeling miserable and lonely and, despite what Broyles had said earlier, horribly guilty. Astrid saw her watching them and a flash of anger flushed across her face. Olivia looked away quickly.

"Wait a minute." Chance interrupted. "Even if we could convince them to be treated like Lab Rats again, why on earth would Massive Dynamic help us out? Even the FBI doesn't have that kind of pull."

Walter smiled sadly.

"Oh, they'll help," he said "…because I own the company."


	16. Chapter 16

**NEW MEDICAL SOLUTIONS INC. GREENVILLE, N. CAROLINA**

"Yes Sir, the last of the commercial contracts are being handed over to non-Agency staff." McLennan was on the telephone to his CIA Special Projects handler, and the voice on the phone sounded far from happy.

"Then we can sever all links with this project, which is good Mr McLennan, because this afternoon I've had a number of very difficult conversations with someone high up in Homeland Security."

"Sir, it's as a result of the FBI involvement in the Malone and Nichols case. I had two Agents in the office yesterday but they were shotgunning – they don't have the real story."

The voice on the other end of the phone sounded unconvinced.

"We'll they're getting closer. You're taking steps to tidy this thing up?"

McLennan thought about Bobcat's silence. He hadn't been able to reach the assassin for nearly 24 hours. Given the timescales they were working to and Bobcat's excellent credentials, that meant something had likely gone very badly wrong.

"We may have hit a snag with that. My contact is silent and I have no eyes on the ground locally, so I don't know whether he successfully completed all elements of his task."

"I see. We'll handle it from this end. Forward all your information to me." The tone of the voice darkened. "When you sold me this project, McLennan, you told me it would revolutionise warfare. It didn't. Then you told me that it had all been erased. It wasn't. Then you told me that you'd handle the runners from the programme. Now it sounds like you failed to do that too."

"Sir, this has been a complex project – cutting-edge science always is, and you have tens of gigabites of data, much of it still valid, that will still provide the United States with a tactical advantage in Biological Warfare." If McLennan sounded panicked, he hid it fairly well.

"Which, Mr McLennan.." the voice softened slightly "…is why, despite the difficulties with this project, you are being provided with a new identity and an extremely generous pay-off, enough money for you to live very comfortably without feeling the need to work again, or to discuss this with anyone."

The threat was there, but the voice had the good grace to leave it unsaid.

"Of course, that goes without saying."

"Good. Your documents and the details of the accounts in which your remuneration will be couriered to you as soon as we receive the information on the location of all the remaining elements of the project. Once your contract hand-over is complete tomorrow, then our business is concluded."

"Yes Sir." McLennan answered.

"Good. One last thing. Once you've taken possession of the couriered papers and financials, your CIA service record will be erased. You'll be on your own and if asked we will disavow any knowledge of you or of project Orchid. Understood?"

"Yes Sir."

"Good."

With that final word the phone went dead and Iain McLennan's 29 year career with one of the most secret offices of the Central Intelligence agency was over. He felt no great loss or regret because he knew he'd just been made a very rich man and his problems – Fenton, Malone and Nichols – had been handed over to someone else. He was whistling tunelessly to himself as he e-mailed his boss the location details for Fenton and likely Malone and Nichols.

**CAPSTAN CABIN, EL DORADO NATIONAL FOREST, CALIFORNIA**

Chance handed Guerrero a hunting rifle and a set of winter combat fatigues. Guerrero looked at them in dismay.

"Dude, it's 5 below outside. We're at 8000 feet here, it's gonna snow all night."

"I can make you a hot water bottle if you like. A flask of coffee maybe?" Chance smiled at Guerrero, who unhappily snatched the gun and clothes from his grip.

"Fine, but you should know that this is not cool." He looked nervously out of the window into the frigid night. "If you were serious about that flask, put some of that over-priced whiskey in there. Call it hazardous conditions pay." He started to put the white fatigues on over his regular clothes. "I don't see why I can't stay here anyway. It's not like the visibility is going to be any good in the snow."

Chance was making Guerrero's flask up by the sink in the cabin's kitchen.

"I need eyes on the outside, man. If the Company are serious about cleaning this mess up, the last thing we need are a couple more wet-job pros coming in here and screwing everything up. Put the night vision scope on the rifle." He turned round and gave the now comically overdressed Guerrero his flask. "There you go. Think of it like a winter camping expedition."

"I hate camping, Dude. I'd rather have my testicles caught in a vice than spend a night in a tent." Guerrero moaned as he walked to the door.

"That's the spirit." Chance added sarcastically as Guerrero walked out into the night. Chance waited 30 seconds then checked his earpiece.

"Guerrero, can you hear me?"

"Yeah, I can hear you. Next time I pick a safe house, it's going to be in Tijuana."

Chance smiled and looked out into the white night. He just caught a glimpse of Guerrero disappearing behind a swirling, twisting wall of falling white flakes and dark sequoia trunks.

"You need to be with Peter, Walter."

Walter didn't look at Olivia. He couldn't bring himself to do it. Instead, he busied himself with a big show of putting his coat on.

"Come on Astrid. I want to be at the hospital when Peter wakes up." Astrid patted Walter on the shoulder.

"Don't worry Walter, by the time we get there, he'll be eating ice cream and watching Monday Night Football." There was a light conviviality to the junior agent's voice, but it didn't translate in the sadness of her eyes. She stole a glance at Olivia, which was neutral at best. 'She's picked a side' Olivia thought hopelessly. 'Now I've lost my best friend too'.

"Walter, you go to the car, I need a minute with Olivia." Walter did as Astrid ordered and as he was moving out, Chance walked up to him and put an arm around his shoulder.

"I don't know your boy, Dr Bishop, but he seems like a fighter to me. He'll be fine, and when he gets out of hospital, I'm going to buy him a drink for what he did for Winston and Ames. You tell him that when you see him."

Walter looked kindly on Chance and smiled at his decency.

"Thank you Mr Chance. I will." Olivia watched as he paused at the door, thinking he was going to look round at her and say something, anything to her. But he didn't. Instead he slowly put his hat on and walked out to the car.

"Mr Chance, can you give us a minute?" The authority in Astrid's voice didn't promote disagreement, so Chance smiled politely and went into the kitchen, closing the door behind him to give Astrid and Olivia some privacy.

"Astrid…" Olivia began, but the Junior Agent cut her off.

"Olivia, Peter loves you. You might not think it, but he does. He came back here for you. Not for me, or Fringe Division, or maybe even Walter, but for you."

"I know that Astrid, but it's more complicated than that…."

"Is it?"

"You know it is. You know what happened between them, between Peter and _her_…"

"I do and I know it must hurt like crazy but here's the thing…we're close, you and me, and I never picked up on it either. She was that good. I feel dreadful about that, I feel guilty every time I think about it, but you got passed that with me."

"I don't know what to say, Astrid."

"I know you don't Baby, and that's OK, but unless you and Peter can get past this, then everything you went through over there counts for nothing." Astrid paused for effect. "It means that she's won. Don't let her win. Don't let her take Peter from you. You're the strongest person I've ever met, Olivia. It's time to start going on the offensive. Take Peter back. You need him." Astrid looked at the floor. "I don't want to take Walter back to the hospital to find out that Peter's…." She couldn't finish the sentence and Olivia took her hands.

"I know Astrid, but it's not that simple…."

"I know it isn't. I never said it would be easy, but you need to look past the pain in the here and now and see Peter for what he is, someone who loves you, just like me, and someone who made a mistake, just like me. Just give him some time. If the worst happens…"

"Astrid, don't!" Olivia interjected, but Astrid continued.

"If the worst happens, and you haven't made peace with yourself and Peter, you'll never forgive yourself."

With those words, Astrid took her hands from Olivia's and moved to the door. She shot Olivia a last, sympathetic glance and left, closing the door behind her.

"So, alone at last!"

Chance looked up as Olivia walked into the kitchen. She sat down at the table.

"Yep." Olivia was still turn Astrid's words around in her head. She felt an overwhelming urge to run to the door and catch a lift back to the hospital, but she knew she couldn't and felt awful about it. She forced the thoughts from her mind and settled back on the matter at hand. "Well, except for the Fentons. Where are they?"

"Whilst you were sending Walter on his way, I was telling them to stay put in their bedroom."

"Will they?"

Chance shrugged.

"They're both scared to death, so who knows." He looked at Olivia and smiled, but it was tired. "Will Walter's plan work?"

It was Olivia's turn to shrug.

"No idea, but it's the only option we've got now." She took a swig of coffee. "For all we know Malone and Nichols are sat in Key West, drinking snowballs and catching some sun."

"They'll be here." Chance was certain. "I saw the look in their eyes. They're coming back."

As if to confirm Chance's suspicions, Guerrero's voice buzzed in his ear.

"Dude, got a vehicle moving up the track. Infra red shows two people in the car."

Chance jumped up.

"Here we go. Guerrero's got incoming."

Olivia got up and sprinted up the stairs as Chance turned out the lights in the cabin. Olivia burst through the Fenton's bedroom door.

"Whatever you do, whatever you hear, stay here and wait for one of us to come and get you. Understand?" Both Fenton's nodded, wide-eyed in fear. Olivia switched their bedroom light off and felt her way down the stairs, gun drawn. Chance was stood at the window next to the front door, talking to Guerrero.

"Yeah, I can see the headlights coming up the track. Get into position as quick as you can." He looked at his watch. "How long before Walter's stuff arrives?" he added, looking at Olivia.

"I don't know. Half an hour maybe." Chance cringed.

"It's going to be tough…"

"I know."

"OK then." Chance added with finality. They waited for the car to pull up.


	17. Chapter 17

The door opened slowly as Guerrero whispered into his radio that he was in position across the clearing from them, with the whole cabin in his line of fire. Chance knew that the intruders wouldn't think they were gone, because he hadn't had time to extinguish the fire in the living room and the smoke would give them away, but he hoped that the darkness would disorientate them. He and Olivia had discussed who would face up and who would provide cover, and they'd decided that Olivia would be the person they'd see, in part because they hadn't seen her before, in part because they hoped the FBI blazed across her Kevlar vest would give them pause for thought. Neither was particularly happy about it, but it had been the logical thing to do. That didn't mean that Olivia didn't feel particularly exposed as the front door creaked open.

Nichols nudged through the crack in the door and Malone moved silently behind her. Olivia thought back to Cho's comments earlier in the week about how Nichols had appeared amateur during the bank robbery. She moved like a seasoned predator now, and the darkness suddenly made Olivia feel nervous.

"Freeze, FBI!"

On cue, Chance flicked the hall lights on and Nichols and Malone were momentarily confused. Olivia took a single step forward.

"Drop your guns and get on your knees."

The moment of confusion passed and Chance and Olivia were faced with a good, old-fashioned stand off. Malone looked at Chance.

"You, I recognise. You, on the other hand…" He turned to Olivia. "You're new. I gotta admit, I thought we'd get a day or two longer before that bank thing caught up with us."

"The Bank was the start of it, but it's not why I'm here. New Medical Solutions is why I'm here." If Olivia was expecting a reaction, she didn't get one, at least not what she thought she'd get. "Now drop your weapons and get on your knees! NOW!"

"Fenton spill his guts did he?" It was Nichols now. "Well, if you know about us, and you know what he did to us, then you know we're not leaving until he's dead."

"Can't let you do that." Chance spoke softly but steadily.

"Really?" Malone raised an eyebrow. "If you were in our place, you'd feel different. You want to know what happened the first time I met Fenton? He walked into my 14 by 12 foot cell, led me to an operating room and took a blowtorch to my right hand. No 'hello, how do you do, how about those Lakers', just wordless torture."

"I know…" Chance added sympathetically. "I realise that if I were in your shoes, I'd want him dead too, but I'm not, and you can't."

"Really? And why's that?" Nichols asked.

"Because it's against the law." Olivia added. "Fenton will get what's coming to him, but not from you."

Nichols took a step closer to Olivia.

"Lady, I really don't wanna hurt you, but one way or another I'm finding Fenton and I'm not leaving until he's face down in a pool of his own blood…."

"Listen to me." Olivia sounded desperate. "The thing they infected you with, the reason you walked away from the bank robbery. It's dangerous."

Malone laughed.

"Only for you and your boyfriend here."

"Why do you think the CIA burned the lab down? The fire that you escaped from, why do you think they cleared all traces of it? Why do you think they're still hunting you down? You have a fungus in you that, if it's allowed to spore will kill everyone on the planet."

Nichols and Malone stared in disbelief at Oliva.

"Lady, you're going to have to do better than that."

"No she doesn't. It's true." All four of them turned to see Fenton at the top of the stairs coming down.

"You son of a Bitch…" Malone spat and raised his gun.

"Don't do it…." Chance warned, raising his own gun at Malone. "Get back in the bedroom!" he spat at Fenton.

"I don't think so, Mr Chance. I've not got the stomach to hide any more and I've got to pay for what I did. Now seems as good a time as any." He turned to Malone and Nichols. "Do what you must to me, all I ask is that you spare Agent Dunham, Mr Chance and my wife, and that you hear me out."

Nichols and Malone glanced at each other. It was Malone who spoke.

"Once you're gone, we've got no trouble with anyone else. Say your piece."

"Agent Dunham is right. We infected you with a genetically modified fungus. It has saved your life many times over, but it's malignant. Part of it wants to escape from your body and spore. When that happens, you'll die."

"If I don't believe the FBI, why should I believe you?" Nichols spat.

"Sometimes you start to get real bad headaches don't you? When you do, the pain is helped by you having a bath or a shower isn't it? The pain in your head is the fungus telling you to find somewhere warm and humid to go so it can spore. When you get in the bath, tiny tendrils emerge from your skin and when you get out, the water is milky isn't it?" The silence from both Malone and Nichols told Fenton that he was on the right lines, so he continued. "The problem is that you used to get the sporing once a week? Now it's once a day and eventually, it'll be twice a day, then four times a day. As the fungus gets more extensive in your body, the worse the head pain will be and the more you'll need to bathe to control the sporing. Eventually, without help, you'll die and the spores will erupt in massive quantities. They'll spread over hundreds of square miles and anyone who breathes them in will get infected and die."

"You're saying we're going to die?" The bravado was gone from Nichols.

"It's a psych-out job, Debs. Don't listen to him."

"It's true." Fenton looked from one to the other. "I wish it weren't, but it is. If I could take it back I would, believe me…"

"You're lying!" Malone raised his gun again, but this time, it was Nichols who put a hand on his arm and lowered it. She looked desperately sad.

"He's not. We both know he's not." She turned to Fenton. "Can you help us?"

"He can't…" began Olivia, "…but I can."

As Chance was listening to the conversation unfold, Guerrero hissed into his earpiece.

"Dude, I've got movement to the back of the cabin. Two men, using cover. I don't have a shot." Chance started to move towards Olivia, but before he could do so, gunfire ripped through the cabin. Olivia went down and Chance flung himself over her body. Malone and Nichols hit the floor immediately but Fenton didn't, and the bullets from the unknown assailants tore through him, flinging him into the air and bouncing his lifeless body to the ground.

"You set us up…." screamed Nichols drawing a bead on Chance's head with her handgun.

"It's the CIA!" Chance countered. "Did you think they gave up?" The back door of the cabin was blasted in and gunfire followed it. Malone was hit in the chest and thigh, gasping for air, blood pouring from beneath his clothes. Nichols returned fire, aiming at the silhouette in the doorway. Her shots went high, but forced the figure to take cover.

"Guerrero…" Chance hissed into the radio. "Little help here would be appreciated."

"On my way Dude" Guerrero replied as Chance stated to drag Olivia into the relative safety of the Kitchen. Nichols continued to fire on the now ruined back door to keep the assailant pinned down. She didn't notice the second CIA mechanic come behind her through the front door. He didn't have a gun, but carried a flamethrower. She turned round a split second too late to react and in the instant she saw the weapon, she knew what was coming and closed her eyes. What she heard instead was a single gunshot and the unmistakeable thump of a body hitting the floor. Opening her eyes, she saw Guerrero standing in the doorway. He offered her a hand and pulled her up.

"You OK?"

Nichols smiled

"I am now." Malone raise himself off the floor and Guerrero watched in amazement as the white tendrils crawling and whipping across is skin began to close the two bullet holes up.

"Guerrero!" It was Chance and Guerrero ran towards the sound.

"Is she OK?"

Chance looked down on the prone Olivia, who groaned slightly.

"She's fine, took a bullet to the vest, I think the concussion knocked her out. Watch her."

"Where are you going?"

Chance picked his Gun.

"To find the second assassin. One way or another, this ends tonight." With that, Chance was gone and when Guerrero looked round and saw the body of Fenton crumpled on the floor at the foot of the stairs, his wife next to him, sobbing uncontrollably, he knew why Chance had left.

The snow was coming down heavily and the wind was starting to whip the white powder into twisting, shifting shapes and covering the tracks of the fleeing assassin as Chance followed. The tracks moved through the glade in which the cabin was situated and chance knew that if the assassin reached the tree line, the likelihood that he'd find the man were virtually zero, so he upped his pace until he noticed a dark shape through the snow in front of him running for the trees and the ridge beyond. The man turned and looked at Chance and fired off a couple of rounds which went high and wide. Chance didn't break his pace and rapidly caught the assassin, who turned round again and raised his pistol but didn't have time to fire a shot before Chance was on top of him, knocking the handgun from his grasp and into the snow.

The assassin threw a wild punch which Chance deftly dodged, kicking the assassin behind the right knee, dropping him to the ground, before hitting the man with a brutal uppercut and knocking him out. After taking a second to catch his breath, he searched the prone body until he found what he was looking for, a cell phone and then he turned and left the man lying in the snow, thinking back to Fenton's dead body in the hall of the cabin, and not really caring if the assassin woke up and staggered the five miles to the nearest road or died where he lay of exposure, the north-west wind stealing away his heat.

When Chance arrived back at the cabin, Nichols and Malone, none the worse for being shot, were huddled by the fire in the main room in whispered discussion. Guerrero was sat by the window, rifle in hand, watching the window for any further movement. Chance tossed him the mobile phone.

"Do your magic"

"No problem Dude." Guerrero passed the rifle to Chance, took his own phone out and started to make some telephone calls. Chance placed the rifle against the wall and moved out to the hall. Fenton's body was covered with a blanket and Olivia, now fully awake, was sat with Mrs Fenton, who was still sobbing quietly. Chance poured a glass of his Takagi whiskey and offered it to Mrs Fenton who took it and cradled it in her hands. Chance gently moved her into the kitchen and she offered no resistance, sitting at one of the chairs round the kitchen table, sipping the drink from her shaking hands. Chance draped a blanket over her shoulders and, satisfied she was OK, he lead Olivia back into the hall.

"Are you OK?"

Olivia smiled weakly.

"It's not been my best day ever, but I'm not injured. I called my boss, he's on his way."

"What about your partner?"

Olivia rubbed her eyes.

"No news yet." She tried to sound upbeat but it didn't convince either of them. "I'm sure he'll be OK." She looked over at Nichols and Malone in the corner. "What about them?"

Chance studied them carefully and turned to look out of the window as Broyles in his SUV and a large Massive Dynamic truck trundled up the track through the snow. As he did so, Guerrero popped his head round the door.

"Sorted Dude."

Olivia looked at Chance.

"What's sorted?"

Chance continued to stare into the snowy night.

"The end of this mess"


	18. Chapter 18

**PACIFIC MEDICAL CENTRE, SAN FRANCISCO**

Walter and Astrid sat in the waiting room, looking at the clock on the wall. With them, sat in a wheelchair, but well enough to have changed from his gown to a pair of sweats and a 49ers T-shirt, was Winston. His doctor had told him what had happened to Peter, and he had insisted on coming down and waiting with Walter and Astrid. He'd explained to Walter the part Peter had played in helping to save his life, and much as he had done with Guerrero, Walter had reacted to the story by deciding that Winston was his best friend. And so they sat there, drinking coffee and watching the minute clock tick slowly on in it's agonisingly slow trip around the hours. It was well into the early hours, and Winston's doctor had insisted he go back to the room to rest, when the ER surgical attending appeared in the waiting room.

"Walter Bishop?"

Walter leapt to his feet.

"I'm Walter Bishop…how is he, is he OK?"

Astrid gripped Walter's shaking hand firmly, her eyes just short of the desperation dancing in Walter's.

"Mr Bishop, your son suffered a very serious bullet wound…"

'Oh no', Astrid thought, forcing the words forming to stay inside her head…'he didn't make it'. She suspected Walter was getting to the same place she was by the vice-like grip he was exerting on her hand.

"We cleaned up the minor damage from the first round, but the impact of the second was more severe. We had to remove Peter's spleen and a small part of his liver. We also had to repair some damage to Peter's small intestine. He lost a lot of blood, and he'll be in hospital for a little while, but he made it through a tough procedure and his vitals are good. We'll know more in the morning, but it's looking a lot better now than it did a few hours ago."

"So he'll be alright?" Walter's grip was relaxing, and in his cracking voice, Astrid detected a hint of hope.

"It's very early yet, Dr Bishop. We're keeping him under for the moment and we'll check to see that he's still stable in the morning. I wouldn't say he's out of the woods yet, but the signs so far are looking encouraging."

Walter grasped the surgeon's hand and shook it vigorously.

"Thank you."

The surgeon looked at Walter and Astrid.

"You two look shattered. You should probably try to get some sleep. We have Agent Farnsworth's cell number, we'll call you if there's a change." He smiled at Walter. "I understand you're high up in Massive Dynamic?"

"You could say that." Astrid agreed. The surgeon sidled up to them and whispered confidentially.

"We get a lot of stuff at cost from Massive Dynamic, Dr Bishop, so I'll find you a room somewhere where you and Agent Farnsworth can get some sleep. We're not supposed to do that, but I guess for you we can make an exception."

Walter smiled weakly in thanks and the Surgeon led them to a pair of private rooms. They were both asleep within five minutes.

**TWO WEEKS LATER**

**CHANCE'S OFFICE, THE TENDERLOIN, SAN FRANCISCO**

Ilsa walked into Winston's office, suitcases in hand. Winston looked up from his desk as she dropped them in the middle of the floor.

"Honestly, Mr Winston," she began before she'd even taken her coat off. "I know I was gone for three weeks, but I told you what time I was arriving back and there was no-one there to meet me. I had to get a taxi. A TAXI!"

Winston grunted.

I would have picked you up, Ilsa, but as you can see…" he lifted his left arm up, clad in plaster of Paris "… I have a little problem with driving at the moment." Pucci looked at his arm with genuine concern.

"Good grief Laverne, what on Earth happened to you?"

Winston sighed.

"It's a long story."

"Yes it is." added Ames who walked in and stood behind Winston protectively. Ilsa raised an eyebrow at this.

"Then I'll make us a cup of tea and you can tell me all about it…." She looked around the deserted office. "Where's Chance and Guerrero?"

Winston smiled.

"That story? They're putting an ending to it."

**MASSIVE DYNAMIC HEADQUARTERS, NEW YORK**

Broyles and Nina Sharp stood together on the lawn next to the Massive Dynamic New York Medical labs. It was freezing cold and their breath formed in mists as they stood and looked at the new building at the far side of the quad.

"OK," Broyles began. "Show me."

They walked across the frosty lawn and up the path to the building, which looked like a slightly oversized bungalow. They walked up to the front door and Nina swiped her card through the lock and punched in a number on the keypad. The door unlocked with a loud clunk and swung open. As they walked in, Broyles felt the air rush in with them.

Nina noticed his confusion and smiled.

"We're keeping the ambient air pressure in the building slightly lower than the external air pressure. Everything wants to get in, not out." The external wall of the building hid the fact that it was double-skinned, with a gap of about 10 metres between in the inner and outer walls. In the space in-between the two walls was filled with scientists monitoring the air chemistry, the air pressure and temperature. Broyles looked around.

"No cameras?"

Nina smiled.

"Of course not, Philip. Privacy is important. We're not the FBI."

Broyles smiles slightly at the quip. Nina walked up to the second door on the inner wall and knocked on it. There was a brief pause and the door opened.

"Hello Deborah. I've brought someone to meet you."

Nichols looked at Broyles.

"You best come in then."

An hour later and they were walking back across the quad towards Nina's office.

"Very nice," Broyles began. The quarters that Massive Dynamic had provided for Nichols and Malone were exactly like any other well appointed urban home. Plasma TV, hot tub, free cable. "It's better than my place."

"It should be, it cost three million dollars." Nina replied.

"How are you doing with a cure?"

Nina paused for a second and looked back at the building they had just emerged from.

"We might never find one that doesn't kill them. We're still looking."

"So what you built for them was a three million dollar solitary confinement cell."

Nina never took her eyes from the building.

"No-one said the world was perfect, Philip….."

They resumed walking.

"What about Mrs Fenton?" Nina asked. Broyles shrugged.

"She's in debrief in a Homeland Security facility. The CIA tried to put in a request to prevent us questioning her, but more out of embarrassment than anything sinister. Whomever was responsible for Project Orchid wasn't in the CIA mainstream." He laughed but it was mirthless and sounded bitter. "After she's finished talking to us, who knows? Maybe she'll stand trial, but she was an administration officer, not a doctor….."

"That's what they said about Franz Hoessler." Nina said quietly as they walked across the frost-encrusted grass in the weak winter sunshine.

**GRANT MEDICAL CENTRE, CAMBRIDGE, MASSACHUSETTS**

Walter was sat on Peter's bed. They had a series of maps spread across the sheets and a number of guide books were scattered around Peter's private room. He was now off the ventilators and ECG machines, unnecessary now that he was well on the mend. In truth, the only reason he was still in hospital was because they were still monitoring the repair of his liver and that was going well. Before Walter had arrived, the Attending had told Peter that if everything was OK overnight, he could go home the following day. This had bouyed Peter's mood enormously, as had Chance and Guerrero, who'd visited him earlier in the day to let him know that Winston was making a great recovery and both he and Ames were back at work. The only thing that ruined his mood somewhat was the fact Olivia had barely visited since he regained consciousness, and those times when she had, had been awkward.

Now he was sat in bed, good coffee courtesy of Astrid steaming on the nightstand and discussing which of the National Parks they were going to visit whilst Peter was on recuperative leave. A couple of weeks earlier, Peter would have continued to put Walter off, but after his brush with death, and a discussion with Astrid about how fiercely Walter had treated Olivia after the shooting had given Peter a new found appreciation of Walter and the idea of spending some father and son time was actually appealing. Walter's patent excitement was also strangely infectious.

"I'd like to see The Badlands." Walter began. "We could ride horses – like Gene Autry!"

Peter laughed and patted the stick by the side of his bed.

"I think we'll have to give the horses a miss Walter, at least until I can walk properly again."

"Of course." Walter smiled sadly.

"Hey, what about the place with the shrimp?" Peter said, trying to regenerate Walter's upbeat mood.

"Mammoth Cave, Kentucky!" Walter exclaimed. "That would be excellent!"

"And it's Kentucky…" started Peter, "The home of good bourbon."

Walter chastised Peter.

"You heard what the doctor said – no alcohol for you until your liver is properly repaired. Honestly Peter, if you must insist on taking drugs, you're better off smoking marijuana – I'm currently growing and excellent variety of Hanoi Sky which is quite….."

At that point Olivia stuck her head around the door.

"Quite what, Walter?" she asked.

"Agent Dunham." Walter said, a hint of acrimony obvious in his voice. Peter thought he saw a flash of distress pass across Olivia's face, but it was gone almost as quickly as it arrived. "Nice of you to show up."

"Now now Walter." Peter said carefully. At that point Astrid walked in and Peter silently said a prayer of thanks for her appearance.

"Come on Walter," Astrid took his arm. "Let's give these two some privacy and find you some lunch."

Walter got up reluctantly.

"I'll just be down the hall son," Walter eyed Olivia carefully. "…if you need me."

"I'll be fine Walter," Peter laughed. "Bring me back some twinkies will ya?"

Olivia waited until they had gone and closed the door behind her, before sitting on the chair by Peter's bed that Walter had just vacated.

"You know, I don't think he'll ever forgive me…" Olivia said sadly.

"Walter?" Peter eased himself up so that the pillow was snug against the small of his back. "He'll come round. He just doesn't deal with these sorts of things very well. He just needs a little time."

Olivia looked over the mess of maps and guidebooks spread over the bed.

"You planning a trip?"

"Yeah, Walter wants to do a tour of the National Parks. Last month I'd rather have been shot than do that." He laughed at his own quip. "It's funny how your perspective changes when you….well, you know what I mean. I put in for some time off and Broyles granted it, so now we're deciding where to go."

"You put in for some time off?" Olivia looked shocked. "How long?"

"Two Months." Peter replied noticing the look on Olivia's face. "What is it?"

"Nothing, I guess. I mean, why didn't you tell me?"

"When could I have told you Olivia?" Peter knew where this was going and was tired of the awkwardness, of the fighting. He didn't have the energy for it anymore. He found the revelation poisoning his good mood. "You've spent maybe 20 minutes here since I first came round. You don't want to be here and that's fine, I guess I deserve it, but don't get on my back because I didn't tell you I'm taking some personal time."

"I'm not getting on your back," Olivia said, defensively. "I'm just …I'm …I'm not used to partners bailing out on me." She regretted her choice of words immediately. It wasn't what she meant. It wasn't how this was meant to go. Olivia thought back to the conversation she and Astrid had shared in the cabin. She suddenly felt tired and incredibly lonely. "We can't carry on like this. Peter."

"I know."

"And now you're telling me you're taking time off and I'm finding out about it because you've got maps all over your bed."

"I know."

"And Walter thinks all this is my fault, and…and…I don't know what to say to you…" Olivia was close to tears. Peter placed his hand gently over hers.

"I know."

"Is that all you can say?"

"What do you want me to say, Olivia? I love my job and I want to carry on doing it, but not if it makes us both miserable – I know I can't look at you at the moment and not feel a sense of…" he grasped for the words "…a sense of loss, I guess. Since I got back, I've got a new appreciation of Walter. I actually want to spend time with him." Peter laughed. "Perhaps they removed my brain instead of my spleen."

Olivia looked utterly miserable.

"I'm sorry."

"About what? The spleen thing? Walter says it's an over-rated organ anyway. I'm not sure how you rank the organs in the body in terms of how cool they are, but according to Walter, and he actually said this, the spleen is _uncool_, and he's the Doctor right?"

"Peter!" Olivia was shocked at how lightly he was taking his injuries. "You almost died."

"But I didn't. I'll be using a stick for a while, and I've now got a statistically higher chance of contracting pneumonia, but I was shot twice in the abdomen at point blank range, so I think in the great scheme of things I got lucky."

"So what happens now?"

"Now, I go to Mammoth Caves National Park, Kentucky with Walter where I can see a unique freshwater shrimp, apparently, which he seems unhealthily excited about. Then maybe a couple more places, I quite fancy somewhere warm. Then I guess we come back to work."

"I meant what happens with us?"

Peter paused.

"You know how I feel about you, Olivia. I can't undo what happened and I'll accept whatever you want to do, but it's really your choice."

Olivia was silent for a while, staring at the maps littering Peter's bed. When she spoke, her voice had a little more spark.

"You should take your trip, and see your shrimp."

"See, when you say it like that, you make it sound boring…" Peter joked.

"You should take your trip…" Olivia began again, "….and when you come back, you're going to take me to dinner. An expensive one. Then we're going dancing and I don't want to hear any 'I can't dance because I was shot' excuses, so if you can't dance, you'll need to practice in your shrimp cave, stick or no stick. After that you're going to take me to a jazz club and play me some music. Something romantic of my choosing."

"And after that?"

"After that?" Olivia smiled. "After that, we'll have to wait and see, wont we?"

Olivia's face was serious, but Peter saw a familiar park lit beneath the surface, a spark that he thought he had been responsible for extinguishing.

"I'm not promising I can get over this, Peter. You need to know that. But I can promise to try. I really want to try."

Peter looked at her and felt a familiar longing that had been quiet, slowly re-appearing.

"That's all I can ask for, Olivia." He smiled sadly. "You know I love you, right?"

Olivia leaned over and kissed his forehead.

"I know Peter. If you didn't, this would have been much easier."

"I don't suppose I could interest you in a trip to visit a site with its own freshwater shrimp could I? Before you answer, it's found nowhere else in the world….""

Olivia laughed and for the first time in over month, it sounded honest and full of mirth.

"Not a chance. See you when you get back, Peter." With that she squeezed his hand, which he released reluctantly, and left.

"Yes you will, Olivia Dunham." Peter responded to an empty room.

**CABO SAN LUCAS, TIJUANA, MEXICO**

McLennan was sat on the veranda of his beachside house. On the table in front of him was a mojito, one of many he'd downed since he had arrived. The sun was setting over the Pacific and McLennan wondered why it had taken him so long to discover this little slice of heaven.

His pay-off from CIA service had been enough to buy the house and enough was left over for him to live OK. He'd also managed to squirrel away quite a nest-egg. The great thing about secret projects within the CIA was that the accounting was so tortuous that money got lost everywhere. Secrecy meant that such accounting mistakes never saw the light of day. Knowing that was the difference between a service pension and unlimited mojitos. As he was mulling on his luck and skill, he failed to hear the front door click shut at the back of the house.

"Hello McLennan."

McLennan twisted round in his seat. Chance stood in the doorway and McLennan recognised him immediately, giving himself away with the shock on his face. He leapt to his feet and ran to the rail around the veranda but stopped when he saw Guerrero cradling a pump-action shotgun on the beach. Guerrero smiled at McLennan and slowly shook his head.

"Not gonna work, I'm afraid." Chance was still stood, leaning against the door frame.

"You can't touch me, Chance." McLennan stammered. "I'm CIA."

"No…" Chance began "Not any more. Now you're retired and the CIA tends to get nervous around retired black ops types. Too many secrets and too many people to tell them to. I'm guessing your service record is already in the shredder." Chance smiled. "No-one's coming to help you."

McLennan slumped back into his chair,

"I suppose offering money is a waste of time."

"That ship sailed when you set your dog on Winston and Ames, and had Peter Bishop shot." Chance took the baseball bat from behind his back. "Consider this payment for that mistake." Chance advanced on McClennan, his jovial demeanor gone. He took a practice swing at a hanging basket swinging from the roof over the veranda, smashing it and spilling its contents, a collection of pink-flowered orchids, all over the floor.

Then Chance went to work.

**The End.**


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